The Silver Bird
by The Cheshire Cheese
Summary: Yet another oldie due for a re-write. (I leave the old versions up until the re-writes are out, mostly for paranoid egotistical reasons.)
1. Safety Protocols

**A/N: This is a re-write of a story I did a while back.**

 **I decided to submit "the Silver Bird" to a contest on a website called Inkitt, after touching it up a bit. However, the "touch up" expanded into almost a re-write, as there were a _lot_ of things that needed fixing and ironing out. It wound up needed so much attention that I couldn't get it into the contest on time, so I held back another month to submit it to the _next_ fanfic contest. (I've no intention of winning, though; if I did, I'd be submitting a story based on a franchise more people are famliar with.) **

**If you've read the old version, this one will read pretty much the same, but with a few new scenes, and changes in details. Think of this as "The Silver Bird: Director's Cut."**

 **I do not own "Star Trek: Voyager."**

* * *

Parts of San Francisco were almost as busy at night as it they were by day. Even at one-thirty in the morning, Harry had to weave through a maze of busy streets and brightly lit buildings until he found the quiet alley where his contacts would meet him. He was the first one there. Harry wasn't a guppy (whatever his associates said) but this was the first time he'd arrived in a situation like this alone. Had he been a smoker he would have lit up a joint to calm himself, but Harry liked to take care of his body. So he merely leaned against the wet brick wall, and dropped his hands into the large pockets of his trench coat, feeling the pistol he'd brought. His fedora did little to protect his face from the misty drizzle that sprinkled San Francisco tonight, but Harry didn't mind. It was kind of relaxing. For a few moments, he lost himself in the glistening puddles and the distant sounds of cars.

A choked rumble exploded in Harry's ears, and he jumped back just before an ancient Chevy screamed into the alley. Pressed flat against the damp brick wall, Harry stared as the old car sped past, sputtered down to a stop, and slowly backed up, finally parking in front of him. The lunatic driving that thing should be arrested, Harry thought, if for nothing else, taking such poor care of his car. It was an ugly blockish thing from the '30s, missing one headlamp and in dire need of a paint job. When the door flew opened, Harry feared it would break right off.

Out of the car hoped a lanky white guy about his own age, with sand colored hair under a battered fedora. The driver was dressed much like Harry, but his coat was a lot rattier, and opened. Underneath, his suspenders were visible over his white shirt—not vest or suit top. Pinned to one suspender strap was what looked like the face of a rusted old wristwatch. The guy didn't even have a tie. As the driver swaggered over to him, Harry saw him drop a little bottle into an inner coat pocket.

The guy dipped his hat. "Evening, partner."

"'Partner?'" Harry repeated, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"Just got back from seeing a Western with a breathtaking blond," the guy bragged.

"Ah."

The driver glanced around the alley, before turning back to Harry. "Are you the man with the Bird?"

"No." Harry said. "I work for Indiana. I uh, assume you're driving the getaway car?" He eyed the old automobile dubiously.

"The one and only." The driver dipped his hat again.

Harry noticed a few funny trinkets stuck in the brim of the guy's hat: a Joker card, a winged U.S. Air Force pin, and a long pheasant feather missing chunks of its bristles. Harry wondered if there was any significance behind the items, or if they were just for show. He had a hard time believing this clown had ever served, but who knew; maybe he just was better at flying than he was at driving.

While Harry sized up the driver, the other man stared back, half-consciously retrieving the bottle from his coat and unscrewing the top. He and Harry continued watching each other, as he took an indulgent swig, before apparently realizing with embarrassment that he was drinking in front of a coworker.

Before either of them could react further, a sound made both men turn towards the opposite end of the alley, the driver's lips still on his bottle. The street lamp was casting the long shadow of a man in a thick coat coming up the stone street.

Stashing his booze, the driver called out into the night, "Hey Claude Rains, if you're the man with the Bird, you can get over here and cough it up."

The fellow who stepped around the corner redefined "ugly." His face was so scared that it looked like little more than a bumpy mess. Underneath his bowler hat, clumps of untamed gray hair stuck out in bizarre shapes that gave Harry the impression of a cartoon dynamite cloud. And it was hard to tell in this dark, but Harry could almost swear the man's skin was _orange_. Whatever drugs this freak was dealing, Harry decided never to get involved with them. The man's mouth was stretched into something almost resembling a smile, but not the welcoming kind. It was more the type that said _I'm about to cut you._

"You're the men Indiana sent?" the gangster asked, in a sneering voice.

"That's right," the driver said. "Kitty Indiana paid me to pick up the Bird tonight. I assume Shortie here's got your dough." He thumbed over to Harry.

Harry threw the driver a look, unsure how he felt about the nickname, but decided to brush it off. "Yeah, I've got it." Harry rummaged through his pocket and produced a wad of bills. "Miss Indiana extends her highest thanks to your boss Mickey Kazon for your time, and cooperation."

The gangster reached for the cash, but Harry quickly withdrew his hand.

"Ah-ah-aaah," Harry extended his free hand. "First, we make sure the statue's genuine."

The gangster reluctantly opened his trench coat, and pulled out a bundle roughly the size of a football, wrapped in newspapers and tied shut with string. Harry took the package, and carefully undid the wrapping. The driver leaned over for a better look, treating Harry to his cold whiskey breath. Harry glanced over his shoulder, but the guy didn't take the hint. Harry made a face, and continued unwrapping. When he was done, he had to stop and stare for a few moments.

Harry had seen this statuette in photographs, but seeing it in person was something else. It was a slick silver sculpture, shaped like an abstract representation of a falcon in flight. At first glance, one might mistake it for some kind of space ship from a science fiction serial, like "Flash Gordon." The spread wings and tail feathers ended in sharp curved points, as did the beak. The bird lacked feet, its underbelly flat for sitting on a table or pedestal. Along its back, and cutting through its wings, were tiny stones of red, turquoise, and indigo, forming thin geometric patterns. Looked like something from Mexico, Harry thought.

The driver whistled. "Looks real to me!"

Harry momentarily pocketed the cash for the wild-haired gangster and fished out a quarter, which he tapped gently against the Bird. A distinctive ring echoed through the alley.

"That's silver!" the driver confirmed.

The gangster held out an orange hand. "If you please."

Harry put away the coin, and handed the guy his money. After sticking the cash in his pocket, the gangster continued to fumble around for a few seconds, and then his hand came back out with a pistol.

"And now, I'll be taking back that Bird."

Behind Harry, the driver gave a short laugh. Harry turned to see his comrade sticking his hands on his hips, inside his coat. "Am I going deaf…" and then the driver whipped out a gun of his own, aimed between the ugly gangster's eyes, "…or are you actually trying to rip off Kitty Indiana?"

In the few seconds the driver had the gangster distracted, Harry had time to draw his own pistol.

"Two against one," Harry warned. "I think you'd better just be grateful for what you were paid, and get lost."

"Two against one?" the gangster scoffed. "No, Chink. I think it's more like two against...six."

And as he was speaking, five more men stepped into the alley, weapons drawn. Two had Tommy guns, the rest sporting pistols or handguns. And they all looked like they were using the same drugs and hairdresser as the first fellow.

"Well," the driver laughed. "Since you put it like that."

He swiped the Bird from Harry, and swaggered over to the gangster, who smugly held out his free hand. But instead of giving the statue over the driver used it to smack the gangster's gun out of his grip. Harry winced as the driver let the statue clatter to the stone street, to free both hands so he could pull the gangster into a hostage position.

"Now beat it, all of you," the driver warned, "or he dies. _Ah_ —!" he cocked his gun, stopping one of the other gangsters from going for the statue on the ground.

Harry quickly scooped up the Bird and checked to make sure it wasn't damaged. Looking up at the ambushers, he asked, "What's more important, your friend," he nodded to the man being held hostage, "or this lump of tin?"

The alley was silent.

The gangsters exchanged subtle glances. The one being held hostage widened his eyes in terror. Harry saw the driver squint and swear silently, as the gangsters' weapons came back up.

The driver hurled his hostage into the shooters just as the bullets broke out, then grabbed Harry's sleeve and yanked him down the alley, and into his car. Harry managed to pull the car door shut before any bullets got in, but both men had to press themselves flat against the seat as bullets began passing through the windows. Harry blinked, shielding his eyes from the falling glass. The driver stepped on the gas, and they took off with another deafening screech. Harry's stomach lurched as the driver launched them into a madcap race through a maze of brick buildings.

"Take my gun!" the driver yelled, as they tore around a street corner.

"What?" Harry's hands were still clasped over his own pistol, the silver statuette trapped between his knees. "I've _got_ —"

"Use both!" the driver shouted, his eyes stuck fiercely to the road. "I'm driving!"

Harry was about to ask how five men on foot would catch up to a car anyhow, but was cut off by the sound of more shattering glass. Their enemies were behind them now, in a Volkswagen Beetle. Harry ducked just before the two Tommy Guns began pummeling the car with bullets.

 _Shit._

Harry didn't even bother rolling any windows down. With a gun in each hand, he leaned over the seat and began firing through the back windshield, wincing with every shot. He did most of his aiming with his right hand, the left serving more as a distraction. The entire time, his driver was taking the car all over the road, sharply swerving in and out lanes, as if he was _trying_ to drive like a maniac. It made Harry dizzy, and his stomach was having a hard time keeping up. He squinted over the seat as he continued shooting, struggling to focus. How the hell did people in the movies shoot continuously like this without blinking? Harry managed to get one guy in the head, sending his machine-gun clattering onto the road. But that was it.

"Don't aim for the drivers," his new friend yelled. "Aim for the—"

The driver's voice was drowned out by another round of bullets from the remaining Tommy gun. After returning a few shots, Harry yelled back, "Aim for the 'highers'?"

" _TIRES!_ " the driver hollered. " _SHOOT THEIR TIRES! ON THEIR CAR!_ "

Harry understood, tried to take aim, and found he couldn't from this position. He frantically rolled down the window. He stuck his head and hand out, then quickly withdrew before another round of bullets burst forth. Watching through the back windshield, Harry saw the man with the Tommy gun pause, and check his weapon. Apparently it had jammed. Harry took the opportunity to stick his head back out the window, aiming at the other car's wheels. One of the men in the other car had the same idea. The two shooters locked eyes, and then the other man raised his pistol, aiming at Harry's face.

Before the shot went off, Harry's car swerved out of the way. And then he understood why his friend was driving the way he was. He was making their tires' movements impossible to predict. The remaining Tommy gun was now showering the street behind them with bullets, just missing their back wheels. Somehow, Harry's driver was managing to keep their car just ahead of the spray of lead.

They turned onto a main road, causing several pedestrians to jump back. One blond woman grabbed her face and screamed almost theatrically as the battling cars roared past.

After few more sharp corners and a close scrape with a trolley, Harry finally thought he had a shot at one of the enemies' tires…and neither of his guns would fire.

"I'm out of bullets!" Harry hollered.

"Good timing," the driver replied, taking them towards a dark tunnel. "Listen, when I say three, we both roll out! Don't forget the Bird!"

" _What_?"

"Trust me! On the count of— _Get the Bird!_ "

Harry looked at his useless guns, then tossed them to the floor and scooped up the statue.

"On three. One…"

The car shot forward into the tunnel, which was pitch black. Weren't street tunnels supposed to have lights? Harry couldn't even make out his hands gripping the silver statue in front of him.

" _Three!_ "

Harry felt a kick in his side, and he smacked into his door. He fumbled with the knob, and tumbled out onto the rock-hard street. Their car roared down the tunnel without them. Seconds later, he heard another engine scream past. Harry was in too much pain to try standing up. The arm he'd landed on was in agony, and the statue had stabbed him in the chest. Well, maybe "stabbed" was an exaggeration. But it had definitely pierced skin.

He felt hands on him, pulling him to his feet.

"You okay?"

Panting, Harry replied, "Well I ain't dead."

"Which is probably more than can be said for our friends."

Harry nervously followed the driver down the dark tunnel. After who knew how long, they finally saw the stars again. Harry almost waltzed right out of the tunnel, but his friend stopped him with his arm.

"Wait." The guy carefully led Harry against the wall, and they crawled to the edge of the tunnel. "Look."

Harry looked down. The tunnel was a bridge, and the bridge was incomplete. It was in the middle of construction. In the water below, both cars were sinking, and a few of their attackers were floundering in the water. A few of them.

"I suggest we go back the way we came," the driver advised.

Harry moved his head to nod in agreement. But as he did his supper, too, decided to leave the way it had come. Harry barfed for what seemed like a good thirty seconds, finally finishing with his new friend patting him on the back.

"Come on, we gotta get out of sight."

Harry let the guy lead him blindly back through the tunnel, tucking the statue under his coat. The trek back through the city was almost as nerve wracking as the car chase, with all the people at pay phones, and police cars already arriving at the scene. Harry was positive they'd get caught, but the driver steered him right passed the cops, who paid them no notice.

"My apartment's on the other side of town," Harry finally whispered. "I'm not sure how late the subways run."

"Mine is too. Don't worry, I know a place not far from here where we can lie low for a while. Friend of mine runs it. Chez Sandrine's. Ever heard of it?"

Harry shook his head.

"You'll—" the driver seemed about to say _love it_ , but after eying Harry up one more time, instead finished, "you'll be okay there I think."

Chez Sandrine's was a small but classy bar, run by a female French immigrant who dressed like a man and refused to give up the makeup style of the '30s. The blond hostess poured drinks for her patrons in a pantsuit and a tilted top hat, eyes aglow under thin arched eyebrows, smiling with bow-painted lips.

"I always had a thing about the French," the driver said as he and Harry approached the counter.

"And the French always had a thing about you!" Sandrine lifted her top hat in greetings. "Tommy, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Oh yeah! Sandrine, this is…."

Both the driver and Harry suddenly remembered that neither of them knew each other's names yet.

"Harry," Harry glanced at the man standing next to him. "I'm guessing you're name's Tommy?"

"Or just Tom. Either one works." h

Tom ordered two drinks from Sandrine for himself and Harry.

As the hostess left to fill their glasses, Harry whispered, " _This_ is 'lying low?' Everyone here knows you!"

"Everyone here exists outside the law Harry," Tom whispered back. "We're here to drown our stress as much as hide from the coppers. Lighten up, meet some people."

After being introduced to "Gaunt Gary," "the Giggilo," "Strider," "Jimmy Hook-Hand," and all of their molls, Harry finally managed to convey to Tom that he wasn't especially interested in getting to know local gangsters, and Tom found them a table in the back corner.

"No offense," Tom said, starting his third drink that evening (not counting the whiskey in his jacket), "but you seem new to this business."

"I'm a bit sheltered," Harry admitted, glancing around the smoky bar. "Spending half your teenage-hood in an internment camp will do that to you."

"You're Japanese?" Tom asked. "I was gonna guess Korean, or maybe _Chi_ nese."

"I'm all kinds of things," Harry picked up his drink. The whiskey wasn't great, but Harry forced himself to take another gulp. "God, I hope my parents never find out about this. Especially my mother. It would kill her." He stared out the widow at the glowing city. "She wanted me to play the clarinet. _I_ wanted me to play the clarinet! Or at least work in a garage or something. But who's gonna hire a Jap kid with no experience."

"Kitty Indiana?" Tom suggested.

Harry nodded. "Kitty Indiana. She hired me the day she met me, as a repairman and to play in her band on the side. My qualifications being—and I quote—'Why not.'"

The guy slammed his empty glass onto the table, and followed it with a short belch. "Beautiful story."

Harry stared down into his own whiskey.

"Well," The driver suddenly leaned forward, extending his hand to Harry. "Guess now's as good a time as any for a proper introduction. Tommy Chicago."

Harry had to crack a grin, because he used exactly the same kind of stupid alias. "Harry Kimitsu."

Tommy Chicago shifted in his seat, fumbling with something in his coat. "Well Harry Kimitsu, you've got one more qualification for Miss Indiana." He unpinned the watch face from his suspender. Up close, Harry saw it was an old Bugs Bunny watch, that looked like it hadn't been working in some time. "No one expects a little green guy like you to be such a hell of a shooter." Pinning the trinket to the brim of Harry's hat on the table, Tom finished, "The worst tricksters are the ones who look harmless."

* * *

With the warp core offline and the ship's systems on reduced power, the brightest light in Engineering came from the tiny screen on the console where the events in the holodeck were being displayed. Lt. Tom Paris and Ensign Harry Kim were chatting and drinking in "Sandrine's," oblivious that they were performing for a crowd. The Doctor watched pensively, with a holographic fist pressed to his face. Ensign Vorik, who stood at the controls of the console, exchanged a glance with the EMH. Behind them stood Lt. Miguel Ayala, the highest ranking security officer after Tuvok, and Ensign Samantha Wildman, the ship's xenobiologist.

"That was _wicked!_ "

All heads turned to see two of the ship's youngest crewmembers, Naomi Wildman and Icheb, standing in front of the lifeless warp core.

"Naomi," Samantha's eyes jumped from her daughter to the former drone. "Icheb, where did you two come from?"

"We already had that talk," Naomi joked.

Samantha gave her daughter a look.

Icheb answered, "Naomi contacted me after you left your quarters, to ask if I was growing as restless as she was about the current situation. We agreed to investigate for ourselves."

"Why didn't you tell us the senior staff was performing for the whole crew?" Naomi asked.

"Because they aren't," the Doctor said. "What you just saw was _not_ rehearsed. We have a serious situation on our hands."

Naomi's shoulders slumped. "A holodeck malfunction _again_?"

"It's not funny Naomi." Samantha snapped. "The safety protocols are off! They could've been killed!"

"They may still be killed," Vorik warned, "if we don't find a way to free them from this program."

"Or at least restore their memories," the Doctor added.

Lt. Ayala, as usual, said nothing. The security guard watched the panel with alert black eyes, avoiding participation in the conversation.

"Is this like that time we were all trapped in World War II France?" Naomi asked her mother. "Have they had their memories replaced by holodeck characters?"

Samantha's expression melted into something almost guilty. "Naomi, I keep forgetting that you're half-Ktarian. You're not gonna be a little girl much longer, are you." Glancing at the Doctor, the xenobiologist suggested, "You were there, Doc. You can probably explain it better than I can."

The hologram's eyebrows bobbed. "Well, you and your mother were in the Mess Hall earlier this evening when we were discussing Mr. Paris's new program, weren't you Naomi?"

"Yeah, but I didn't get the whole conversation."

"Then I'll summarize."

* * *

The Doctor left Sickbay at 1700 hours to meet the rest of the senior staff in the Mess Hall. It felt strange to see the place so sparsely populated; being denied the luxury of eating, the hologram normally only saw this deck during special occasions when the entire crew was crowded inside, or when he was called there during an emergency.

He was pleasantly surprised to find Seven of Nine behind the counter, with an apron over her sapphire-blue biosuit. Neelix appeared to be coaching her in making his famous Marsupial Surprise. Seven had taken up the culinary arts as a recent interest, which the Doctor had welcomed as a sign of the former drone finally embracing her humanity. But Seven's social improvements had recently taken a hit, when the Doctor had discovered the Borg "failsafe" device in her brain, a malicious piece of technology programmed to act as a firewall against certain emotions. From the way she was so smoothly working with Neelix tonight, one would never guess the turmoil she'd been through only weeks ago.

Not wanting to cut ahead in line, the Doctor occupied himself observing the rest of the mess hall. Near the back of the room, against the windows, Captain Janeway and Tom Paris were pulling tables together, for the senior staff's get-together. B'Elanna Torres was standing nearby, conversing with Harry Kim. This far into her pregnancy, it was no surprise the chief engineer wasn't being asked to help move the tables together.

"Doctor," Seven greeted the hologram from behind the counter.

"Seven!" the Doctor grinned. "I'm glad to see you decided to join us after all."

"Mr. Neelix appealed to my vanity, and I was forced to comply."

The Talaxian made an innocent face, chopping some long blue root. "All I asked was whether the Borg were as capable of inventing new recipes as they were at replicating ones in the database. I'd have never thought to add Brunali kel-cider to the Marsupial Surprise."

"I'm glad to see your away mission went well," the Doctor said.

"Oh, Seven was a huge help in finding edible plants on that planet. And we had a very deep heart-to-heart. I convinced her it would be a good idea to try socializing with the crew again. You know it was also Seven who saved my ship? A Talaxian freighter should normally have no trouble piloting through an M-Class planet's atmosphere, but ever since those Quarren inspectors practically disassembled her, the Baxiel just hasn't been herself. We almost got stranded in a dormant volcano, but Seven managed to remodulate the—"

" _Yes_ , Mr. Neelix, Seven told me all about your adventures on the planet, during her follow-up exam."

"I find culinary preparation to be a great test of precision," Seven commented.

The Doctor made a face. "Just remember Seven, that the primary mission tonight is to exercise your _social_ skills."

Seven didn't say anything right away, and when she finally did, it was to ask Neelix where she might find the Talaxian sugar.

The Doctor sighed, and resumed looking around the Mess Hall. Seven years and a photographic memory allowed the Doctor to recall every name and face he saw.

In one corner, stellar cartographer Jenny Delaney was helping Icheb with an Astrometrics report. The Doctor knew it was Jenny, by her green uniform; she and Megan were identical twins, and constantly changing their hairstyles, making their uniforms the only distinguishing factor from afar. And sometimes they'd switch colors just to prank people. The entire ship envied the Delaney twins, along with Sam and Naomi Wildman, for being the only crew members with a relative on board.

Over in the sitting area, Tal Celes and William Telfer were eating dessert. The Doctor tried to avoid Telfer's gaze, but the hypochondriac noticed him, and his brown eyes bulged. Tal quickly put a hand on his wrist. The Doctor couldn't hear what the Bajoran was telling her friend, but she was probably reassuring Telfer that the Doctor was just here for the senior staff's get-together, and not to diagnose him with some fatal disease.

The Doctor's gaze moved to a table near the center of the room, where Crewman Angelo Tassoni was in a deep conversation with Crewman Chell and Ensign Brooks. It was good to see the former Equinox officers finally integrating with the rest of the crew. The crimes they'd committed aboard the rogue Federation ship were now almost two years behind them, and all five of the Equinox survivors had proven their worth to aboard Voyager. The only thing the Doctor disapproved of now was the bubbling purple liquid he saw Tassoni sipping.

"Hey Doc," B'Elanna greeted, approaching the counter to pour herself a glass of Bolian necter. "Something wrong?"

"Your engineer, Mr. Tassoni. He's still drinking that ry'loth like a fish! I've told him numerous times, that energy drink is a power substance for the _Klingons_ it was meant for. It should not be taken by humans except in the smallest of doses!"

"Believe me Doc, I've told him. It's a lost cause. Tassoni's a workaholic. All the Equinox five are trying to make up for what they did under Ransom's command. Gilmore did it by adopting the Borg baby, Lessing takes the nice-guy routine to maximum warp, and Tassoni does it by taking every shift he can get his hands on." B'Elanna shrugged. "What can you do."

Janeway, finished setting up the tables, joined the group near the counter. "Evening Doctor."

"Captain," the hologram nodded. "Are we just waiting on Commander Chakotay and Mr. Tuvok?"

"Seems like it." Janeway began pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Tom's going to explain the program in a bit more detail to us over dinner."

Samantha and Naomi Wildman were reaching the front of the line. The Doctor hadn't even noticed the xenobiologist and her daughter enter the mess hall. Naomi, having entered another growth spurt, now looked almost twelve. Many of the humans on board found it easy to forget that the half-Ktarian was less than six years old.

"You guys are trying that program tonight!" Naomi said excitedly. "It's another Tom Paris feature, isnt' it?"

"Yep," Tom said, joining the crowd with Harry Kim. "Me and Harry wrote it."

Harry cut in, "Well, 'wrote' is a loose term here. We did an awful lot of plagiarizing if you ask me."

"All art takes inspiration from somewhere else," Tom argued. "Anyway, it's set in Earth's twentieth century—"

"Like that War program we were all trapped in, by the Hirogen?" Naomi said, serving herself some Marsupial Surprise. "I still remember seeing out the attic window, all those Klingons fighting the Nazis—"

Tom was shaking his head. "No, no. This is _post_ -World War II, America. No Nazis, no Frenchmen, _definitely_ no Klingons besides my wife. This is what's called 'film noir.' Gangsters, detectives, femme fatales…"

"So this is sort of a test-run?" Samantha asked.

"That's right," Janeway blew on her coffee. "And we're the guinea pigs."

Naomi pouted, "Why can't I be a guinea pig?"

"Everyone will get to play the program," Tom promised, "But the senior staff's gonna test it out first. Actually, this is sort of an overdue celebration for getting into contact with Starfleet. Neelix suggested the senior staff do something together, and it's only taken until now."

The doors hissed opened, and Chakotay and Tuvok entered. For a moment, it almost looked as if two counterparts from a parallel universe had stepped into the mess hall. The commanders almost looked like their usual selves, wearing their usual uniforms, but Chakotay's hair was flattened and parted on the side, with some new streaks of silver on the sides of his black hair, and Tuvok sported a thin pencil mustache. Naomi and her mother instantly suppressed a giggle at the Vulcan's facial hair. Seven's eyes fixed on Chakotay, and for a moment the Borg chef stood frozen behind the counter, mid-chop. The Doctor feared, irrationally he realized, that her failsafe device might act up. Commander Chakotay invoked the most dangerous emotions for Seven of Nine.

Janeway simply raised an eyebrow. "I thought we weren't putting on costumes until after dinner."

"This is the first time I get to be a character in a program where I'm not the bad guy." Chakotay said. "Or brainwashed." He was referring to two long-passed incidents with the holodeck. "I'm going to enjoy myself dammit!"

"And you Tuvok?" Janeway asked her oldest friend on board. "I like the mustache!"

"The Commander insisted," was the Vulcan's only explanation.

"Is everybody here?" Tom asked. "And dinner's done? Let's eat! Come on Seven, Neelix. Off with the aprons!"

Naomi watched the senior officers curiously. "Who's gonna be the femme fatale?"

"Neelix, naturally," Tom called. "Tomorrow, Naomi. I promise!"

"Come on Naomi," her mother joked, "The senior officers want to be alone now. Don't want to spend time with us peasants."

The Doctor followed the senior staff to the line of tables. Seven was careful to pick a seat as far away from Chakotay as possible.

"So," Tom asked eagerly, "What are your characters?"

"Tom," B'Elanna smacked her husband's arm, "It's supposed to be a surprise!"

"Well just share a few hints," Tom urged.

"I'll be a club owner," Janeway said, "And Seven's going to be my lounge singer."

" _That's_ original." Tom turned to Chakotay. "How 'bout you big guy? Let me guess, the Tattooed Terror, heavy weight champion?"

"Not a champion. Just an unknown underground boxer," Chakotay grinned.

The Doctor gave the first officer a disapproving look. His irritation increased when he caught Seven looking intrigued at the idea of Chakotay engaging in such a violent sport.

"If there are any medical conditions no one's made me aware of yet," the Doctor said, "now's the time."

Tom scoffed. "Doc, you've given us all checkups today! Don't you think you're being a little paranoid? We're just going to the holodeck."

The hologram was unperturbed. "Three people at this table still have some residual Borg technology in their systems from the Unimatrix Zero incident, that will take another full year to fully flush itself out. Something I shouldn't need to remind my _assistant_ , whose _wife_ is among them." Janeway and Tuvok exchanged a glance, while B'Elanna gave her eyes a small roll, and sipped her drink. "And if Seven is any indication, Borg nanoprobes can be unpredictable in freed drones. No offense, Seven. One of us is also pregnant, to say nothing of all the alien planets some of you have recently returned from."

Baffled, Harry asked, "What's any of that got to do with the holodeck?"

"Maybe Mr. Paris is right, and I am just being 'paranoid.' But it wouldn't be the first time an unexpected problem arose from the holodeck. After almost seven years on this ship, I can think of a number of possibilities. A hologram could get accidentally downloaded into someone's cortical node. An alien might find its way onto the holodeck and kill Ensign Kim again, or pray on Commander Tuvok's fragile Vulcan mind…"

"Hey now," B'Elanna pointed at the hologram, "Let's not start hurling racial insults Doc."

"I should warn you all," Tom leaned over the table. "This program's gonna have a _lot_ of racism, homophobia, sexism, classism, and probably every other kind of – _ism_ you can think of. It's the 1940s."

Chakotay shrugged. "Better than just pretending it wasn't there. The way some of these classics became classics was by addressing social injustices. I'd assumed you'd be taking a leaf out of 'Casablanca's' book."

Tom softly hit the table with his hand. "I knew I forgot something. I was gonna watch that movie, so I could work some references into the program." He shrugged, picking up his drink. "Ah, well. I can always tweek it later."

The captain stared at Tom. "You haven't seen 'Casablanca?' You're writing a film noir program, and you haven't..."

The Doctor muttered, "It's like someone who's never seen 'the Magic Flute'..."

"What," Tom asked, "is it now a crime not to see a famous movie? I could probably piece together the entire plot just from the quotes everybody knows. Girl walks into his jin joint, kid gets looked at, usual suspects are rounded up, they'll always have Paris, roll credits."

The debate over Tom's film repertoire continued for a good seven minutes, until someone finally managed to turn the subject to Seven and Neelix's recent away mission.

Less than two hours later, the senior officers were on their way to the holodeck, in full costume. Naomi and Icheb made sure to be standing behind a corner nearby, for a full view. The captain seemed amused by the looks she and Seven were getting as they clopped down the hall in their twentieth-century heels. The captain had given herself a smoky make-over, along with a red lacy eye-patch. Beneath her no-nonsense coat and hat, Seven looked as glamorous as she had when she'd "played" a lounge singer in the Hirogen's program. Janeway glanced at Seven with a lopsided grin. Seven returned the look with apprehension.

The rest of the crew was already there, most covered in coats from the era. The Doctor looked exactly as he had when playing the President of Earth in "Captain Proton," complete with the glasses. Tuvok was also wearing spectacles, and coupled with the thin mustache he might have been unrecognizable, if not for his Vulcan ears and eyebrows.

Chakotay's black eyes darted under his fedora, jumping between Janeway and Seven. "When I suggested an eye-patch I was joking, Kathryn."

"I know. But once you put the idea in my head and it got stuck there."

Chakotay's eyes moved to Seven, who avoided his gaze determinately. "You look good in earthy colors Seven."

The comment might have been a jab at the time the two had recently spent stranded together in a forest on an M-class planet. Seven's human eyebrow moved in an unreadable gesture.

"It's polite to say 'thank you' when you get a compliment," Chakotay nudged.

Almost meeting his eye, she said reluctantly, "Thank you Commander."

"Everyone ready?" Without waiting for a response, Tom keyed opened the holodeck doors.

The doors opened to a brick street in the middle of a brightly lit city. San Francisco, judging the iconic bridge off in the distance.

"So now what," B'Elanna asked, shaking out her red hat. "We just sort of wander around until the plot forces us back together?"

"Pretty much," Tom replied. "Shouldn't take long."

The Doctor watched Seven and the captain head down the road. As aesthetically pleasing as his pupil was in her costume, he wanted Seven to practice social skills on her own this evening. Turning in the opposite direction, the hologram decided to see if there was any high culture in this era. After less than five minutes, the Doctor's paranoid fears were confirmed, when he saw Neelix standing in the middle of the street, staring obliviously at the scenery.

"Neelix!" the Doctor grabbed the Talaxian by the shoulder of his coat and dragged him out of the street, just before a taxi came sputtering by. "I think you too two years off my program."

"I'm sorry Doctor. There's just so much to look at here! It reminds me of an era on Talax, _our_ industrial revolution. But our cars looked a lot different. They only had three whee—"

Neelix suddenly cringed and doubled over, pressing a spotted hand against his temple.

"Neelix?" The Doctor hit his combadge. "Doctor to Transporter Room 1, beam Neelix to Sickbay!"

The Doctor instead found _himself_ transported to Sickbay, with no sign of Neelix. Ensign Wildman, who was filling in for Tom and the Doctor, stared at the hologram, her hazel eyes moving from his brown hat to his glasses. The Doctor angrily slammed his hand over the combadge under his lapel. "Transporter Room 1! I said beam _Neelix_ to Sickbay! Though I suppose I'll want to be here too."

" _I'm trying sir_ ," Crewman Marina Jor said over the comm., " _But something's blocked off the entire holodeck_."

"Then how did you beam _me_ out?"

" _I didn't. Your program was automatically transferred_."

"Doctor to Security, get to the holodeck!"

The Doctor and Samantha waited tensely.

Finally, Lt. Ayala's voice came over the intercom: " _The holodeck doors are sealed. My security code isn't working_."

The Doctor's face fell, while Sam rolled her eyes.

Under her breath, the Xenobiologist hissed, "Why do we even _have_ that goddamn holodeck?"

* * *

"…and here we are." the Doctor finished.

"So someone tampered with the holodeck then?" Naomi asked. "Or it's just a malfunction?"

Her mother folded her arms. "If the latter, it's a damn specific malfunction."

"Neelix reacted the way the senior staff did to the Hirogen's neural interface three years ago," the Doctor said. "Either the Hirogen's programming has somehow been reactivated by accident, or someone is deliberately using the same trick. And didn't want me interfering."

"Nor the safety protocols." Vorik reminded him needlessly.

" _We_ can't get in," Samantha's eyes returned to the small screen on the console, where Tom and Harry were finishing off another bottle of whiskey. " _They_ can't get out, we can't communicate with them. And from the looks of it, none of them have any memory of who they really are."

Naomi leaned back against the warp core railing, staring ahead pensively. "It _is_ like France, then."

"France?" Icheb gave her an inquiring look.

"France." Naomi repeated. "I've told you about it before Icheb. The time the Hirogen took over Voyager, and trapped some of us in the holodeck."

Her friend nodded. "You and your mother believed you were fugitives, hiding with Neelix."

"We were Jews, hiding in out with a French Resistance member—Neelix. I was too young to really understand the politics of it. I just remember being so scared, because my friend got sent to a concentration camp—not a real friend, but you know, in my fake memory. Then the guy hiding us disappears, and we're on our own in that attic. And _then_ , we hear this weird language out the window, and I thought it sounded like Scandinavian or something. But instead there's a bunch of Klingons in the street, chopping up Nazis with bat'leths! I didn't remember what a Klingon was at the time, because I was brainwashed, but it was still really cool. The whole thing just feels like a big weird dream now."

"A bad dream," her mother finished. "But at least that time the Doctor knew exactly what was wrong with us. This time…"

The hologram's frustration was beginning to show. "The ship is normally capable of scanning the crew's brainwaves from any location, but the shields around the holodeck are preventing us from accessing any information beyond basic observational footage."

Vorik began to remind the Doctor, "We've sent Crewman Jor to—"

" _Yes_ Ensign, I remember what's transpired in the last twenty minutes. But the observations of a quasi-empath hardly hold a candle to a simple scan, in this case at least."

The Vulcan engineer tapped his combadge. "Vorik to Jor, report."

A soft feminine voice came over the comm. " _Nothing, sir. I can barely sense anything even pressed against the holodeck door. All I've picked up was basic fear_."

"The car chase," Icheb said unnecessarily.

Vorik exchanged a glance with the Doctor, then told the woman over the comm., "You may return to Engineering, Crewmen."

The Doctor urged, "We should tackle this one problem at a time. Focus your efforts on finding a way for me to scan the senior staff in the holodeck so I can diagnose what we're dealing with."

"In that time we might instead find a way lower the forcefields around the holodeck," Vorik argued calmly.

"With all due respect Ensign, I am a senior officer."

"But as a medic you are not a command officer. And unless someone knows Captain Janeway or Commander Chakotay's authorization codes, you cannot be transformed into the Emergency Command Hologram. Lt. Ayala is the default command officer in this instance. The decision is therefore his."

It took Ayala a second to realize that everyone was now looking at him. The security guard was an immensely reserved man, to the point that some crewmembers joked that he lacked the ability of speech the way his Vulcan superior lacked emotion. Ayala had taken command on occasion, but never before in a situation like this.

"Vorik," Ayala finally said, "is there any possible way to allow the Doctor to scan the senior staff's brainwaves, with main scanners down? We can watch them on visual after all."

Vorik seemed to give it some thought. "It's an intriguing puzzle. I only wish we had more time in which to—"

"Sir?" a Bajoran ensign, Tabor, approached the group. "We might be able to reconfigure the visual monitors to work like a medical tricorder. It would be tricky, but I think it could work. In the Maquis we built a lot of our ships up from junk, and we sometimes had to install old programs from one computer into another. But for this we'd have make adjustments to the medical tricorder's programming, so it'd be compatible with ship scanners."

Crewmen Marla Gilmore timidly joined in. "I remember a few tricks we sometimes used to use on the—on another ship I served on." It was obvious which ship the former chief engineer of the Equinox was referring to. "Tabor's idea could work, with some creativity."

Vorik arched one tufted eyebrow. "An ingenious proposal."

Ayala nodded to Vorik. "Let's get on it then."


	2. The 47s

**A/N: I don't own "Star Trek: Voyager."**

* * *

Vorik had some of the most experienced engineers in Starfleet at his disposal. Yet even with the variety of backgrounds and expertise amongst the team, every idea that was proposed wound up getting shot down, for some reason or another.

"Of all times for Joe not to be here," Marina Jor lamented.

She was referring to Lt. Joe Carrey, who'd been killed on an away mission just a few weeks earlier.

Tabor nodded. "It's a disadvantage to be down Joe _or_ B'Elanna. Without either of them, I'd say we're Cardassian voles sitting in a Hara-cat's den."

Icheb gave Tabor a curious look, but decided now wasn't the time to ask him to explain the Bajoran idiom. While the engineers brainstormed, Icheb approached the EMH. "Doctor, I might attempt to form a neural link with Seven. I don't know what I'd tell her, but…"

"I'm afraid that's not possible at the moment," the Doctor said regretfully. "I already attempted to tap her auditory implant as I've done in the past, with no luck. The dampening field around the holodeck is simply too strong. But you can still help. It's possible—though not very likely—that this has something to do with the Borg technology in Seven, the Captain, Tuvok, or B'Elanna's bodies."

Icheb's hazel eyes narrowed in confusion. "When did the Captain or—" His face changed. "Unimatrix Zero."

"Precisely."

"That was almost a year ago," Icheb recalled.

"And the nanoprobes in their bodies should be largely flushed out by now," the Doctor admitted, "But there are still a few left, particularly in Commander Tuvok. I don't know how that could be related to what's going on here, but we need to examine and eliminate any and all possibilities."

Icheb nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Naomi glanced around the dark engine room. "Anything I can do?"

Lt. Ayala glanced at her. "Yeah," the security guard gestured to the console where the holo-program was still on display. "Monitor the senior staff for us. Both of you, Ensign Wildman and… Crewman Wildman."

Naomi joined her mother at the console.

"I'll monitor their life signs," Samantha said. "And Naomi, you can be the visual monitor."

"Yes ma'am!"

Ayala turned to the de-facto chief engineer. "You alright Vorik?"

"I have had command of Engineering before," the young Vulcan admitted, "But rarely during a crisis of this variety. I have neither the ingenuity of Lt. Torres nor the experience of Lt. Carrey."

"You've got that Vulcan attention to detail," Ayala assured him. "Plus some Maquis and an Equinox crewmen. Put them to good use."

Marla Gilmore looked like she didn't like being reminded of the Equinox, but Tabor and Jor radiated with pride at the mention of their Maquis history.

"Doc," Ayala said, "I think you should take a look at the crew's medical logs, look for anything that might give us a hint as to what may've caused this. I'm going to get other crewmembers to start reviewing other sections of the ship."

As they left the engine room, the Doctor called to the engineers, "It would be best if I could scan the crew while they're asleep, holding still."

"Too late," Naomi replied, watching B'Elanna wake up on the screen.

* * *

Billie Torres slammed the alarm clock harder than she'd meant too. She sighed, pulling her hand away, examining the damage on the already bent clock. This time, she'd left a small crack in the glass. Billie collapsed back into bed, and spent several moments staring at the ceiling. She'd been having a good dream. Tom had returned to her. He'd apologized for everything, and when she'd told him the news, he'd been delighted. That damned alarm clock had forced her back into this reality, where she lay alone in a rundown apartment in San Fransisco, her rounding belly now beginning to reveal her illegitimate pregnancy.

She didn't want to get out of bed, but her child wanted breakfast, and presumably a roof over his or her head too. So she forced herself up, and into her morning routine. She ate her banana pancakes and coffee while reading the paper. (Updates on Pakistan, a new Humphrey Bogart movie, and the Brooklyn Dodgers taking a Colored man named Jackie Robinson onto their team.)

She dressed herself in a navy blue suit dress with white trim. Her hair was always tricky, because it had to somehow compliment the unusual forehead she'd inherited from her mother. People always noticed the odd ridges that rippled down her brow, but most were far too polite to say anything. A few friends had recommended cosmetic surgeons, but Billie disdained people who cut themselves up for the sake of beauty. ("I'm a secretary, not a movie star," she'd tell those friends.) She tossed on the final touches: pearl earrings she'd managed not to hock yet; a little (fake) white flower pinned to her collar; and a cheap ring she'd gotten at a pawn shop, a false wedding band she'd begun to wear when her pregnancy started to show. After that, on with her red wool trench coat, out into the cool November air, and on to the subway station.

Once on the train, Billie tried to entertain herself with the view out the window, but found herself unable today. Against her better judgment, she unfolded the letter she always kept in her coat pocket.

 _11 March, 1946_

 _Hey Billie. Not much time to write. Will make this quick. Love you. I love you too much to stay. I did something in the Air Force, something bad. It wasn't killing Germans I was feeling guilty about all that time. It was killing my own. And lying about it. Long story, but to make short, I took wrong turn, led us into Nazi ambush. Got three of my friends killed. Got back and lied, said Jimmy gave me wrong directions. That's the real reason I transfered from the Air Force to the Army. Thought they wouldn't find out if I wasn't there anymore. But now Im getting questions from my old commanders, other pilots pointing fingers at me._

 _I wasn't a good soldier Billie. I wasn't brave. I was a coward. None of the men could ever count on me and neither can you. I'm getting out of here, to save you and me both. Im a coward and I don't want to go to jail. Don't want you involved. Don't try to contact me. Find someone else. Someone decent, who will take care of you and your children. And know that no matter what happens—_

Billie folded the letter back up, before the tears came.

She didn't dare allow herself to wonder what Tom might have done, had he known that she was expecting. Because in the back of her mind, she suspected—from the way he'd worded the letter—that Tom _did_ know, if only in the back of _his_ mind. It might even have been the thing that triggered him to leave.

As Billie replaced the letter in her pocket, her fingers brushed a few other folded bits of paper. Nuts, she'd almost forgotten about her little "backup plan." _Oh Tom, don't worry about me, I've found a man who'll take care of me…financially anyway_. Billie hoped things wouldn't come to blackmail. Charles was her friend. Maybe one of her dearest friends. But if that was what it took to keep her job, and keep food on her and her child's table, well…

* * *

Billie was a secretary to a wannabe archaeologist named Charles Liberty. Self-employed and not very successful, Charles made most his living teaching at a small local university, and bringing in extra money fighting. WWII had changed quite a bit for Charles' people. When the U.S. had joined the War, American Indians had flocked en mass to serve, some tribes personally declaring war on the "Crazy White Man" (as some Code Talkers dubbed Hitler). Afterwards many of them had taken advantage of the military benefits and gone on to college _—_ or in Charles' case, quickly finish it up, after he'd taken a break to serve his country.

And his good fortune had certainly helped Billie. When the Indian professional had happened upon the pregnant, half-Mexican, unmarried woman with abnormal facial features, his response had been pity, rather than disdain. Then he'd asked if she'd come for an interview, and Billie had immediately said yes, uncertain what she was about to interview for. She'd improvised well though, and landed a job as Charles' secretary. For a brief time, Billie had fantasized about marrying him, to give her child a father. But Charles had subtlety made it clear to her that he wasn't going to cross that line. He wound up becoming something of a surrogate brother to her.

Billie entered the office to find Charles hunched over his desk, shadowed by a framed copy of the flag raising of Iwo Jima on the wall. His black hair was parted at the side, with some streaks of silver cutting behind his ears. The suspenders and rolled-up sleeves were a good look for him, but her Tom had worn it better. Billie shoved the thought of her former lover away, and greeted her employer.

"Morning Chuck."

"Good morning Billie."

The morning _was_ good. But come lunchtime, things got interesting.

Billie was getting up to leave the office and go out for her lunch break, when Charles stopped her. "One moment Billie. You have a moment?"

"Sure." She smoothed her blue suit dress. "What is it?"

Charles fiddled with his pencil. "You were excited to get this job. You stopped by for an interview just a few days after I put my ad in the mail box."

Billie nodded. "That's right."

Charles continued to stare at her. Then he opened his drawer, and pulled out two envelopes.

"This showed up in my mailbox this morning." He removed the contents of both envelopes, and tossed them onto the desk. One was a letter, in his handwriting. The other had been written on a typewriter. Charles pinched up the typed letter and read aloud: "We apologize; the address you've sent your letter to is no longer in service. Your money will be returned…" Charles dropped the paper on the desk. "Since my ad never wound up in the paper, I'd love to know how you found out I was looking to hire someone on. And why you lied about it in the interview."

Billie folded her arms over her pregnant stomach. "Well, since there's no more hiding it…I…just needed work." She shrugged. "You felt sorry for me, and then suddenly you were asking if I wanted an interview, and I figured, why not."

"You needed work." Charles gave a tiny nod. "Yet instead of being downtown job hunting, you were out here on campus, snooping around my office."

"Snooping? Charles I was going for a walk! I already told you."

"Yes. You were looking in the windows because you'd always dreamed of going to college yourself and never had the chance. Believable enough at the time. But since I now know you've lied to me once already, I'm inclined to do another background check."

"Charles, please," Billie dropped into her winded, pleading voice. "I need this job."

"For?"

Realizing she wasn't going to fool him a second time, she decided to shift gears to Plan B.

"All right." Dropping the sweet-girl routine, she said bluntly, "I'm looking for something that I think belongs to me. I tracked it to you, and decided to try my hand at the damsel-in-distress motif. When you mentioned the ad in the paper, I just smiled and went with it."

"What is it you're looking for?" he eyed her suspiciously, almost nervously.

"A silver statue of a bird." She held out her hands. "About so-long, and this wide. Covered in stones. See my grandfather, on my father's side, he wasn't exactly a law abiding citizen. He and some fellow desperadoes wrangled up a lot of treasures out in the desert, and this was the most valuable. My father inherited it, but he was forced to pawn it when the stock market crashed."

Charles face became sympathetic. "To feed the family?"

She scoffed. "To fund his own relocation to greener pastures. He abandoned my mother and me during the Depression. Left us flat in the middle of the Dust Bowel, with no one to support us. The bastard took all the valuables with him. I want that Bird as a sort of pension, for my mother. And yes, a bit of extra cash for myself and my baby would certainly make my life easier."

Charles gave the pencil in his hands that look he often used in place of a sigh. He silently lit himself a cigarette, looking like he was pondering how to respond to her story.

"Sounds like a reasonable claim on the statue," he finally said. "In any case, you have more right to it than those fat cats who just want it for the fame and fortune." He took a drag of his joint. "I've been tracking the Bird for the same reason you have Billie. I think I have a claim to it. That silver bird was crafted by my tribe. It got confiscated during some conflict with the American government." He smiled. "But it sounds like what goes around comes around, hmm?"

Billie grinned. "They robbed your ancestors, and then Abuelo robs them."

Charles took another drag from his cigarette.

"So," Billie looked around the office, dropping her hands to her sides. "Are we going to look for the Bird together then?"

Charles exhaled. "No. You're fired."

Billie didn't react, partially because she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"I mean it. I like you Billie, I've never had a finer assistant. But I can't afford to have people I don't trust in here, and I can't afford to split the cost of that Bird. I've got debts to pay off too. Big ones." He leaned back, shuffling some papers. "Go dig up one of your grandpa's other pirate treasures."

"I don't think I'm going anywhere."

Charles almost looked amused. "You're in no position to argue."

Billie pulled a sheet of scrap paper from her blue shirt pocket, and read: " _June 5, 1947: Round three, your ass goes down. The bread will be under your door_."

Charles slowly removed his cigarette, and put it out.

Billie pulled out another slip. " _May 3: Round seven, you go down_ …"

"Where did you get that." Charles voice and face were expressionless, as they usually were when he was under pressure.

"Your trash." She pulled out an entire handful of little slips. " _August_ —I can't read that number— _you win, but only after the ninth_ —" By now Charles had risen from the desk, and was approaching her, while she backed away from him, joyfully reading each slip. She let him snatch a few of them from her, and simply pulled more from her pockets. " _January, '46: Round fiftee_ —you went _fifteen_ rounds? My _god_ your head must've hurt! Here, have them." She tossed the slips at Charles like confetti. "I have so many more at home—and you'll never find them all."

Charles clutched the papers in his fist, and finally let them drop to the floor. He stared down at her sullenly.

Billie was now giggling behind her hand like a schoolgirl. Professor Charles Liberty, by night known as the Tattooed Terror, looking like a pouting child caught with his hands in a cookie jar, was too adorable for words. Billie would remember that sight for a long time.

"Accepting bribes from gangsters, to lose your boxing matches?" She shook her head. "Despicable. And then leaving the evidence in waste baskets that get picked up by your secretary—who's a poor single mother? That's just _embarrassing_." She gestured to Charles. "You smoke, Chuck. You've got access to fire. Why didn't you just burn them?"

"That'd be more conspicuous, leaving a burning smell behind in my office. Anyone passing the window seeing me light up a sheet of paper, rather than throwing one out…"

"I guess it was too much work to just take them home and burn them there?"

Charles looked away, staring at the evidence that littered his floor with his hand on his hip. Billie swung her arms playfully.

"So…what kind of a raise am I looking at here?"

Charles gave her a look under his eyebrows, and moved back behind his desk. "Fine. We'll work something out. Find the Bird together. But from now on, we're honest with each other."

* * *

The Bridge was oddly quiet. Ayala was standing over the security station, where his comrade Lt. Todd Andrews—the other half of Tuvok's favorite pair of officers alongside Ayala—was filling in for the Vulcan.

"No luck Miguel," Andrews sighed, his British accent more pronounced than usual. "Security can't get into that holodeck. Even phasers on the full setting won't do it. I s'pose a torpedo might do the trick, but there's a chance that might endanger the senior staff."

Over at the helm, Ensign Amelia Jenkins tittered weakly. Jenkins, normally the night shift pilot, was now filling in for Tom Paris.

"I'm glad someone finds this funny," Andrews muttered.

"It's my defense mechanism," the blond helmswoman replied. "How do you think I've stayed sane in the Delta Quadrant for all these years?"

"Carmen used to say pretty much the same thing," Ayala agreed. "Unfortunately she never was successful in teaching me a decent sense of humor."

It was remarkable, Jenkins thought, how Ayala could speak so casually about the wife who'd been murdered by Cardassians. She knew he still felt guilty about "orphaning" his sons by getting lost in the Delta Quadrant.

"Anything to report, Amelia?" Ayala asked.

Jenkins shrugged. "Helm control looks normal, except of course the inability to go to warp. Just hope no hostile aliens or space anomalies find us while we're sitting here dead in the water."

Ayala apparently hadn't even thought of that. The security guard slowly closed his eyes and muttered to himself, " _Me cago en la leche._ "

"Bloody hell," Andrews agreed.

"I should've never left Mars." Jenkins threw her head back in her seat. "I shouldv'e never left Olympus Mons. I could've become a mountain-sledding instructor like my mother but nooo, I had to go after 'real flying!'"

"You'll see Mars again," Ayala assured her. "Voyager's found her way out of worse situations."

Andrews muttered, "The _senior staff_ found our way out of most of those situations. There's a reason Tuvok's the chief, and you and me are just phasers with yellowshirts attached to them—"

" _Sickbay to Bridge_ ," the Doctor's sounded like his mood had improved. " _The engine crew's succeeded in allowing me to scan the senior staff's brainwaves. I'm scanning them right now_."

Ayala's thick eyebrows rose. "That's good news!"

Leaning over the back of her chair, Jenkins asked loudly enough for the Doctor to hear over the comm., "How'd they do it?"

The Doctor's voice replied cheerfully, " _To summarize, Gilmore came up with an idea of breaking down one of the usual programs that feed into the holodeck 'window' feature, sending it through, and then reassembling it in the form of a scanner. Icheb's Borg knowledge and nanoprobes helped make it possible."_

Andrews made a face. "I wonder where Gilmore got that lovely idea."

"Hey, Todd," Ayala scolded his best friend, "I don't hear you judging Icheb for how he gained _his_ knowledge."

"Icheb and Seven weren't in control of themselves when they were assimilated. The Equinox crew—"

"Have redeemed themselves a dozen times over," Jenkins cut in quickly. "Come on Todd, we can't start infighting. From what I hear, the senior staff might be on their way to doing that."

Ayala dark eyes met Jenkins' pale blue ones, and nodded in approval.

* * *

Tommy Chicago had never actually met his boss in person. He'd been in Kitty Indiana's employ for less than a week, having been hired over the phone to drive the getaway car for Harry Kimitsu the night before. Now he and Harry were on their way to her café, to deliver the statuette.

Tom and Harry stepped off the train and sauntered through the subway station, doing all they could to look like two buddies just heading off to work for the day. But the noticeable contrast between their wardrobes made the charade hard to pull off. Neither had changed his clothes since the night before, but at least Harry had made sure to neatly fold everything up before crashing on Tom's couch in his underwear. Glancing at his own wrinkled clothing, Tom was beginning to realize that he probably should have done the same. It had taken him almost twenty minutes to find an un-stained tie to wear for Miss Indiana, and when he finally dug up a bright red necktie with Mickey Mouse on it Harry hadn't argued. Which was just as well, because that egghead wasn't one to talk, with the hideous plaid bow tie he was wearing.

Harry reexamined their map as they came up the subway's steps and onto the street. "Was this really the closest stop we could get to Indiana's place?"

"California," Tom laughed. "The best public transportation in the world! If you think getting around here is hard, try Wisconsin. Those rubes don't even _have_ a subway system."

"I play in the band at the club almost every night," Harry said, thinking out loud. "But I live so close, I usually just walk. Should be just a few more blocks, past the movie theater."

As they passed the theater, they inadvertently glanced at the posters depicting the latest upcoming attractions: a War drama about the French Resistance; a Disney cartoon featuring what looked like a personified tree and water droplet; and a sci-fi serial that seemed suspiciously similar to "Flash Gordon."

"I can't remember the last time I was at the movies," Harry mused.

"You're not missing much," Tom assured him. "Hollywood's been starved for originality lately. That War picture's another 'Casablanca' wannabe; 'Flotter and Treevis' is actually just a bunch of shorts; and Captain Proton is just Flash Gordon with pants."

"Who goes to the movies for 'originality?'" Harry argued. "I go for the faces. That 'Casablanca wannabe' looks like an all-star cast. Bogie, Katharine Hepburn, Peter Lorre..."

"Well, it looks like some of their careers are tanking," Tom muttered, eying the "Captain Proton" poster where Errol Flynn blasted through space with an unconvincing looking jet-pack.

Kitty Indiana's café was just one of many joints in a string of buildings on the old stone road. The vertical sign spelled the club's name, _The Queen's Cabin_ , in a font based loosely on Old English. When they were finally facing the building head-on, they could see the mascot standing above the horizontal sign over the doorway: a female pirate, black hair billowing in the wind, with one hand on her hip, and the other clutching a sword on her belt. Tom eyed the logo curiously, as they crossed underneath and entered the club.

"Is that Anne Bonnie on the sign out there?" Tom asked, stepping into the café.

"Grace O'Malley," a husky female voice corrected him.

Their boss approached them, eying the pair with one blue eye and one red lacy patch. She stopped before the two men, placing one fist on her hip. "Or Grania, if you prefer the original Gaelic."

"Tommy Chicago," Harry gestured with his fedora, sending the Bugs Bunny watch face pinned to the brim swinging."Meet Miss Kitty Indiana."

Tom began to dip his own decorated hat, and suddenly remembered to take it off indoors. Holding his hat to his chest, he said, "Miss Indiana, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, and I must say, has anyone ever told you that you're a spitting image of—"

"Katharine Hepburn. Only about five times a day," she smiled humorously.

"I was gonna say a grown-up Clara Bow. I mean, Clara Bow if she was," Tom gestured to his boss, "your age."

Kitty Indiana's visible eye blinked away from him as she considered it. "So, Clara Bow."

That's right, the silent film actress _would_ be in her forties now, wouldn't she.

Miss Indiana made a dismissive face. "Well in any case, welcome to the Queen's Cabin, Mr. Chicago."

Kitty Indiana's regal fashion seemed to mimic the icon on her café's sign. She wore a long maroon dress with loose blouse-like sleeves and a thick belt, translucent white ruffles dangling over the neckline. Her brown hair was yanked tightly up, cumulating in a bundle of curls that tickled one side of her forehead. Her make-up was smoky and dark, working with her age rather than trying to hide it. Her maroon eye-patch, trimmed with tiny white lace, seemed designed to match her dress. One absolutely got the impression of a pirate queen.

"Grace O'Malley," Tom repeated. "Was she real, or someone fictional like Long John Silver?"

"Oh, she was real." Kitty replied. "The Irish called her the Pirate Queen and hail her as a hero to this day, for the way she stood up to the English. My father claimed a relation. I'm not sure if I believe him or not, but it's fun to pretend." She winked her one visible eye. "If you'll follow me gentleman, I'd like to offer you both a drink."

She turned, and they followed her across the sparsely populated café.

Miss Indiana ran a classy place, something resembling a gin-joint, cabaret, and restaurant all rolled into one. Directly ahead of them was a short stage, currently out of use, its red curtains closed. Next to the stage was a piano where a striking blond woman played a soft tune for the morning guests ("As Time Goes By"). A bar lay against one wall, where a plump bald man was wiping the counter.

"Morning gents," the bartender straightened his bow tie nervously. "You uh, with the law?"

"Ease up Mr. Lonzak, they're not coppers," Kitty said dryly. "Prohibition's been over for almost twenty years now."

The barkeep nodded, and returned to his work.

The tables were arranged around a dance floor, where a silver mirror-ball dangled overhead. The restaurant was divided by wide arches and smooth black pillars, decorated with gold geometric designs that shouted back to the Roaring Twenties. Potted palm trees stood around the corners and doorways, reminding Tom of Rick's café from "Casablanca."

Glancing around, Tom asked, "Was this place a speakeasy?"

"One of the most popular in San Francisco!" Kitty said proudly. "My mother ran the joint, while my father got the booze. Daddy worked with Capone, Lansky, Siegel, and Luciano before any of them were famous. And Bugs Moran remains a close personal family friend."

"He went all the way to Chicago and the East Coast to get his liquor?"

"On occasion."

Tom and Harry got a few looks as they followed their boss through the café, probably for their under-dressed attire, or maybe because they were simply new faces. This early in the day, the café was sparsely populated. At one table sat a businessman whose goatee reminded Tom of Ming the Merciless from "Flash Gordon." He was having a luxurious breakfast with his blond trophy wife. With the husband's back to them, Tom playfully puckered his lips in a kiss as they passed. The woman reacted to his gesture with a piercing scream that echoed through the café.

"S-sorry," Tom stammered, "I meant no offense—"

Kitty waved her hand, still walking. "It's alright Mr. Chicago, those two are regulars. The wife's just a little jumpy is all."

The blond woman was already back to laughing over drinks with her husband, as if nothing had happened. Harry shrugged at Tom, confirming Kitty's claim that this was nothing unusual.

 _Ooookay._

Tom was suddenly elbowed by Harry. "Is that Sandrine?" He pointed to a table where the Frenchwoman socialized with some other local celebrities. "I knew I recognized her from somewhere! She comes here from time to time."

"I'm guessing most of your regulars are pretty 'recognizable,'" Tom pointed to Sandrine's table. "Isn't that the mayor? And that's Officer Cavit, and the Widow Templeton..."

Harry was no longer listening, quickening his pace towards the piano, where the glamorous young woman was playing. Harry grinned and gestured to her with his hat. "G'morning, Annie."

Tom was afraid to find out how _this_ buxom blond might respond, and braced himself for another scream. But to his relief, she simply returned Harry's hello with a smile, without pausing her playing.

Catching up to Harry, Tom got a better look at the pianist. She looked like a movie star, with her glamorous makeup, and gold hair swept over one shoulder. She wore a long iridescent dress of sapphire blue, with fashionably padded shoulders and a plunging V-neck. While Indiana's makeup was misty and subtle, Annie's was sharp and bright. After her beauty, the most noticeable feature was a set of unusual metallic shapes, one curving around her eye, the other spread under her ear like a star. One of her hands was covered in a web of the same metal. Tom tried not to be caught staring as Kitty led them passed the girl, up a narrow staircase and into the little sitting room. Only after she'd shut the door did Tom dare to ask her about her piano player's appearance.

"What were those silver blotches all over her face?"

"Tom!" Harry hissed.

"What? She looks like got splashed with a bucket of liquid chrome! Is it some kind of acid burn?"

"It's a birth defect, Mr. Chicago." Kitty yanked the chain of a ceiling lamp, giving them more light. "It's not contagious, and it isn't life-threatening, and I'd just as soon you didn't mention it to Annie's face; she's sensitive about her condition."

Tom nodded, lifting a hand diplomatically.

Harry said politely, "I think it makes her look interesting."

Kitty Indiana gestured for the two men to sit on an elegant couch, and poured everyone a cup of coffee. She then had a seat across from them in a little armchair. Between them stood a short coffee table.

"All right," Indiana said, after taking an indulging sip of coffee. "Let's see the Bird!"

Harry opened his coat, and placed the package on the table. With an approving look from his boss, he unwrapped it. The gem-encrusted bird was even more impressive in full light, sitting on the reflective coffee table. The oddly colored stones now shined brightly across the slick silver surface. Indiana gently took the bird by its wings, slowly turning it around on the table to examine it from every angle.

"Gentleman," she said in a low voice, "We have all become rich."

"Who's 'we'?" Tom asked. "Is your piano girl Annie in on this?"

Indiana looked up at him. "Annie's—is that 'Steamboat Willie?'"

Tom stared at her. "Oh!" He glanced down at his tie. "Yeah." He shrugged. "Love cartoons. Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Betty Boop..."

Indiana smiled. "I remember when 'Steamboat Willie' was new in theaters. One of the first sound pictures I ever saw." She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Annie Hanson, my piano player. Yes, she helped me track down this little artifact. Don't be fooled by her blond hair and innocent smile. Annie's one of the most conniving minds I've ever known. All she needed was someone to point her in the right direction."

"Sounds like you two are close." Tom observed.

"Annie's something of a surrogate daughter to me. She's an orphan. I ran into her, and helped her find her way."

Tom sat there with his arms folded, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn't he said, "I guess you and her probably have a few interesting stories to tell."

"Not really." Kitty raised her mug. "Just the same doom-and-gloom song and dance you'll hear from anyone who tried to find work during the Depression. Now, let's discuss what exactly we're going to do with this statue."

Tom looked at Harry, to see if he thought Kitty was leaving anything out. Harry was watching the Bird eagerly, as if waiting for it to lay a golden egg. Tom finally shrugged, and decided to let the subject drop—for now.

* * *

Now that the Doctor could scan the senior staff, the engineering team was focused on trying to get the warp core back online. Sam Wildman still monitored the life signs of the senior staff in the holodeck, while Naomi observed on the screen. At some point, Naomi had requested a PADD from someone on their way to fetch supplies, and was now typing furiously.

"You taking notes Naomi?" Sam asked. "Or just jotting down story ideas? This must be giving you a lot of inspiration."

"I'm making a list of hypothesises...or...however you say it." Naomi scrolled to the top of her PADD. "Here's what I've got so far. One: Seven's Borg philology caused another malfunction, and reactivated the Hirogen interface, which was somehow dormant in the holodeck all this time without us knowing. The Doctor did use her to try to break the Hirogen's interface last time, so maybe someone or something messed with her implants to cause the opposite to happen. Anyway, my next idea: the aliens that flew into Tom's 'Captain Proton' holonovel that one time are back, and they caused this, probably on accident, or maybe to run some kind of experiment. Three: Neelix's cheese made Voyager sick again, and that caused the holodeck to act buggy. Four: None of this is actually happening, because it's really _us_ who are trapped on a holodeck, and the senior staff is trying to get _us_ out. And five: this is all a dream we're having, that those dream-aliens with the chins have us trapped in, and the senior staff's on the outside trying to save us all."

Sam's blond eyebrows went up. "Imaginative, but given this journey, not too far-fetched."

"Agreed," Vorik said from the warp core. "The Doctor suspects something along the lines of your daughter's first hypothesis. The trouble is that even if it were somehow possible, no one, even among our enemies, would have any logical motive for trapping the senior officers in a flim noel program."

Sam bit her lip, while her daughter corrected the Vulcan: " _Film noir_."

* * *

Detective Timothy Excelsior liked to work alone.

Tim had quite enjoyed the tranquility of the little Georgia farm he'd grown up on. But it wasn't very interesting, and lacked challenging puzzles to be solved. Rather than take over Pop's farm, Tim had gone to Hampton University, and eventually earned his P.I. license…just in time for Black Tuesday. With the stock market in shambles, the South was the last place for a Colored man to try looking for someone to hire him. So Tim did what a lot of Negroes had been doing since the '20s, and relocated to New York City, taking residence in the neighborhood of Harlem. In a place where even the policemen were Colored, Tim had little trouble getting clients now. He was so good that even whites often sought his assistance.

Like the woman who'd hired him for this job. Thin, pale, brunette, and with most unusual ridges running down her nose, she had come to him in tears, and poured out her soul about a priceless family heirloom that had been looted from her home by vicious gangsters. A long, heart wrenching tale, which was without doubt the biggest pile of pigeon shit Tim had ever heard. For starters, she'd claimed to have lived in Iowa her entire life, and then talked about riding the subway throughout her childhood. Her tears had become less sympathetic when Tim had caught the strong whiff of onion on her. And finally, when he asked her why, of all people, she was seeking help from him, she'd "admitted" that he physically reminded her so very much of her dear, departed father. Tim could only imagine the expression she must've seen on his face, after pulling that card. She had told him that her name was Brigid Marquis, and by the end of their meeting, Tim hadn't even believed that.

But it didn't matter whether Tim believed her story or her name. What he did believe was the five-hundred dollars she paid him. And that was just the security deposited. She'd promised far more if and when he found her poor dead father's silver bird statue. Weeks of searching had taken Tim across the country, to San Francisco. There, finally, he'd admitted to himself that he needed help.

Ned Felix was another private investigator, who lived here in California. Tim had gotten a hold of Ned over the phone, and the two had agreed to work on this hunt together, and split the cost—with the permission of "Brigid Marquis." Ned lived in a small town on the outskirts of San Francisco, and agreed to meet Tim at a little Irish saloon called Sullivan's, where they could talk over their plans for hunting down the Bird.

Tim was in Sullivan's now, waiting for Mr. Felix to arrive. He self-consciously pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and adjusted his gray fedora on the table. He checked his reflection in a nearby mirror, making sure his pencil-thin mustache was still neatly trimmed. Tim felt a bit awkward about being one of the few people of color in this bar, and the only one with pointed ears, until a man with a face colored like a goldfish and spotted like a giraffe entered the pub, waving at the un-enthused bartender.

Tim squinted carefully at the creature, struggling to decide whether he was hallucinating. The man's clownish wardrobe was almost as bad as his facial features, sporting a yellow checkered suit and a red polka dotted bow tie, under a long fur-collared coat. He had dreadful blond muttonchops, and when he removed his bowler hat, a coarse main like a horse's was revealed.

"Morning Seamus!" the Martian greeted the portly Irish bartender.

Seamus grunted in response, as if he was used to spotted flying monkeys stopping by his pub.

The bizarre-looking man cheerily lifted his hat to a passing blond wearing too much makeup.

"Hi-ho there ma'am! And isn't it a lovely morning?"

The woman looked at him and emitted a piercing scream.

Unperturbed, the strange man continued on through the restaurant. No one else seemed to notice either the odd-looking man, or the woman's inappropriate reaction. The rest of the customers here must be regulars, Tim concluded. To his horror, the monstrosity pulled out a chair at his table and had a seat, grinning as if they were best friends.

"You must be Mr. Excelsior!" The man picked up one of Tim's hands, which were both numb with shock, and shook it almost violently. "I'm Ned Felix, so glad to meet you in person!"

"The pleasure is entirely mine." Tim forced a smile.

For some reason, smiles always felt unnatural to Tim, even when he wasn't being introduced to anthropomorphic goldfish.

"If you'll forgive me Mr. Excelsior," Felix rambled on. "I figured, when you said you were from Harlem, that you'd be a Colored gentleman; but I don't think I've seen such ears or eyebrows on anyone before."

Tim was used to such curiosity from strangers regarding his ears and face. In fact, it had almost certainly contributed to his status as a loner, even in his own community. Comparisons to Dracula and Ming the Merciless were daily.

"A family trait," Tim explained. "My mother's genes are strong. If you'll forgive me," Tim attempted another small smile, "I've never seen anyone with spots or hair quite like yours."

"Well I'm not originally from here." Felix admitted. "My British skin probably isn't meant for this California heat."

The British origin might also explain the mutton chops, Tim mused, and he let the subject drop.

"This artifact," Tim pulled his notepad from his gray trench coat. "Was stolen by gangsters working for one Mickey Kazon. Whom you insist no longer has it."

"Doesn't have it." Felix confirmed. "Kazon had a hold of the Bird for a time, but my sources tell me that he very recently, ah, 'punished' several of his underlings for 'losing his bird.'" Ned Felix chuckled darkly. "One of them turned up in a fisherman's net a few days ago. The other two are still missing."

Tim raised an eyebrow, taking notes. "Do you happen to know what organized crime Kazon was involved with? Italian, Jewish, Irish…?"

"Not sure. It was hard to place his ethnicity. All I could gather was that he was extremely ugly and had some wild hair..."

* * *

Sam and Naomi observed the program in split-screen mode, with the holodeck's various sections divided as if on a surveillance camera. In one grid Chakotay and B'Elanna worked in an office. In another, Seven of Nine played a piano and chatted with patrons at a café. In a different restaurant, Tuvok and Neelix were having a deep discussion over tea. Janeway was in a sitting room, talking to someone on an elegant ring-dial phone, while Tom and Harry played cards on a nearby coffee table.

A few feet away from the console, a panel on the wall displayed Sickbay, where the Doctor was looking over his findings. Vorik stood before the Doctor's screen, listening to his report.

"I've finished analyzing their brainwaves." The Doctor held his fist to his chin thoughtfully. "It looks almost exactly like what the Hirogen did to them three years ago. They're linked by a neural interface to the holodeck. Their memories have definitely been tampered with, but their personalities—their emotions, hormones, reactions—those seem unaltered. Not counting the effects of stress and Mr. Paris's alcohol of course."

"That's _real_ alcohol?" Naomi asked.

Vorik stated simply, "The holodeck is on replicator mode. It would seem someone planned to keep the senior staff alive in this program for some time."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," the Doctor warned. "I can think of a number of ways this could all be some kind of freak accident, though admittedly none of them very likely."

Vorik argued, "Their personalities in this program are too similar to their real identities to be an accident."

"Actually," the Doctor said, "The way the Hirogen interface worked was that the holodeck offered a massive combination of personality traits, names and 'facts' for each character, and each crewmember's brains subconsciously 'picked out' the ones that felt most familiar. So you're right Mr. Vorik, it's not a coincidence; but it also doesn't mean someone deliberately engineered this. Something could simply have activated the old Hirogen interface by accident."

"I recall the engineering team deleting that interface program from the database," Vorik argued.

"Deleted files can still be restored," the Doctor countered.

Sam took Vorik's side. "On _accident,_ Doc?"

"Ensigns, if we were having this conversation six years ago I'd agree with you entirely. But it's been a _very_ strange journey. This could be the result of an undiscovered spacial anomaly, or an alien from another realm making a clumsy attempt at First Contact..."

Vorik peered over the console where Sam and Naomi were observing, his eyes fixed on the grid where Tuvok and Neelix were now strolling down a street. "They seem to come close, on multiple occasions, to noticing that something is out of place," the Vulcan observed. "Tuvok and Neelix were both surprised by each other's appearances. Yet all it took to dissuade them from questioning it were brief explanations."

"Like a dream." Naomi said.

Behind them, Icheb listened with one hand on the dead warp core's railing. The young Brunali had run out of things to do, and was now growing engrossed in the conversation. Finally speaking up, he asked Naomi, "In what way is it like a dream?"

Naomi glanced over her shoulder at her friend. "You know, how when you're in a dream, you see weird things, and you just don't question it. But sometimes you start to wonder if something's off. And then, you either realize you're dreaming and wake up, or, someone in your dream gives you some kind of random explanation, and you just accept it."

Icheb's green eyes narrowed in thought. "I recently dreamed that Mezoti and the twins were aboard Voyager again. I vaguely recalled them being adopted away, and requested an explanation from Mezoti. She told me that the adoption was only in effect during a 'mission for quartz.' At the time, it seemed a reasonable enough explanation, and I accepted it."

On the Sickbay screen, the Doctor nodded. "Their brain patterns do have a bit in common with someone who's dreaming. Now that I think of it, I'm also seeing something similar to when those aliens invaded your minds, and caused you all to share the same dream."

"So," Sam held up a finger, "Someone put them into these roles, and altered their memories, but their subconscious is sort of…helping the charade along?"

"It looks that way," the Doctor said.

"Their subconscious must have had a lot to do with it," a soft voice cut in.

The speaker was a petite brunette in a gold uniform: Crewman Marina Jor, one of Chakotay's former Maquis, a human/Betazoid hybrid. Her powers weren't strong enough to help Captain Janeway the way the famous Deanna Troi had assisted Captain Picard, but Jor was known throughout the ship for her empathy, and was very good at reading even perfect strangers.

"Their names," Jor said, joining Sam, Naomi and Vorik at the console. "They're names aren't coincidences. Remember, with the Hirogen brainwashing, they wound up with variations of their real names. Kathryn Janeway became Katrine, B'Elanna became Brigitte…but this time they're even more detailed." She pointed to her old Maquis commander, having a cup of coffee with B'Elanna at a café. "One of the holograms called Chakotay 'Professor Liberty.' The Liberty was one of Chakotay's Maquis ships."

Vorik glanced at Jor. "The ship we were assigned to catch was called the Val Jean."

"But Chakotay captained more than one ship in the Maquis. Before the Val Jean, he captained the Liberty. I served aboard it, until it was destroyed in a battle and we had to abandon ship. The Maquis then reassigned us to the Val Jean."

Icheb subconsciously tightened his grip on the warp core railing. "Captain Janeway is from a province called Indiana."

"State." Naomi corrected him. "Provinces are in Canada."

"Tuvok," Vorik noted, "served aboard the U.S.S. Excelsior, under Captain Sulu."

"Chicago," Sam muttered. "Paris. Tommy Chicago, Tom Paris." She breathed in deeply. "So the senior staff is playing the game as originally planned, they just don't realize it. And their minds are filling in the blanks. That about right?"

"That is one possibility." Vorik looked at her darkly under his sharp eyebrows, "The other is that they are being controlled by an individual who knows them personally, and well."

The group stared down at the screen. It soon became apparent that much of the engine room was now watching them, waiting for the discussion to continue.

From the upper level, a young human female leaning over the railing asked, "So why does the puppet master want them all to go after a silver bird statue?" The speaker was Ensign Kao-Li Xiong, one of B'Elanna's youngest engineers.

From the opposite balcony, Marla Gilmore answered, "It's just a cliché." The former Equinox engineer folded her arms casually over the railing. "The detectives and gangsters go after some valuable item, to drive the plot. It's called a Mick…oh…Mick-something-or-other."

Sam Wildman turned back to the screen. "We should take a closer look at that 'Mick-something-or-other.' With it being so important in the program, I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was also related to what the hell is going on here."

Vorik lifted one eyebrow in a Vulcan shrug, as he checked some readings on the console. "It is reading like an ordinary hologram."

"I like the captain's eye patch." Naomi said offhandedly. "And Tuvok's mustache."

Samantha's blond hair flew as she whirled to glare at her daughter. "Naomi, you are taking this _far_ too well!"

"Why?" Naomi shrugged. "It's not like these things don't happen a lot on Voyager. A few weeks ago we were all brainwashed on Quarra. And before that we had a whole ship-full of Klingons beam aboard and start worshiping B'Elanna's baby. If it was the Borg, or the Hirogen, or Species 8472, then yeah I'd be scared. But when was the last time someone actually died on the holodeck?"

"You've never been concerned during any of Voyager's holodeck malfunctions?" Icheb asked dubiously.

"Well I was, the first few times it happened. And I do still have that nightmare sometimes, where I'm trapped on the holodeck with Satan's Robot, the Ogre of Fire, and Sandrine with a pool stick all chasing me through Fair Haven trying to kill me. But that's more just a worst-case-scenario anxiety-dream." Backtracking on subjects, Naomi rambled on, "It's not like smoke is going up right now, and there are Borg cubes out every—"

" _Naomi!_ " Sam rubbed her temples with both hands. "Muzzle it."

* * *

 **A/N: I went into more detail about the Native American WWII history for this version of the story. I have to say, I love the code names some of the Code Talkers assigned the enemies. Hitler was "the Crazy White Man," or "He Who Smells His Mustache." Moussolini meanwhile was "Gourd Chin." XDDDDD**


	3. Dangerous Lady

**A/N: I don't own "Star Trek: Voyager."**

* * *

As irritating as Ned Felix was to work with, Tim Excelsior had to admit that the man was resourceful. Ned had a network of "contacts" throughout California's underworld—criminals who he could pay with money, drinks, or sometimes just flattery, for useful information. On top of that, Ned knew how to intimidate; one might not have guessed from the man's cheery nature, but Ned, like Tim, had served in the War.

The pair stepped off the trolley mid-morning, into a part of town that seemed sparsely populated. Aside from the occasional glance at both men's unusual appearance, no one seemed to notice Tim or Ned. The only acknowledgement they got was a "Shalom" from a rabbi who reminded Tim oddly of Leonardo da Vinci.

"I lost my entire nuclear family in the Blitz." Ned said as they strolled down the crowded street, hands in their coat pockets. "My parents and siblings all lived in London, in the section that got it the worst. I hate to admit it, but I was fighting as much for revenge as I was to protect the Isle."

"There's nothing shameful about that." Tim's eyebrows didn't have much mobility, but the rest of his face conveyed his genuine sympathy. "I could say I've lost family too, but the truth is, I can at least get to sleep knowing that Janelle and the children are safe and sound."

"Are you divorced?" Ned asked, maybe a bit too casually.

They crossed a little bridge over a stream between the buildings.

"Yes." Tim said finally. "After the War I returned to work as a private investigator. I had a particularly troublesome case, a homicide. I found the suspect and he was committed, but he escaped the asylum. That combined with my experience in the War made it…difficult…It was my idea to end the marriage. I lied, and 'admitted' to having an affair, so we could file for a divorce. Janelle left Harlem, and took the children to live with her parents in Brooklyn. I'm hoping that in time, she'll find someone else."

Ned looked up at Tim, as if his story was somehow more devastating than his own. "Does, does she know that you didn't really…?"

"She no doubt suspects…" They turned down an alley. "Janelle and the children have both tried to get back in contact. I've avoided them."

"You can't even tell them, how much you—?"

Tim seized Ned's arm and pulled him back, just in time to save him from the car that sped into the alley. The rounded green Buick screeched to a halt a second before slamming into a brick wall. Tim stared at the mad driver, and adjusted the glasses that had fallen crooked across his nose. A young white man was shifting the car into parking gear, looking at Ned and Tim with a combination of terror and sheepish embarrassment.

"Sorry about that!" the man called through the opened window.

When the driver hoped out of the car, Tim took in every detail about him. He wasn't wearing a coat, wasn't even wearing anything over his white shirt, save suspenders and a necktie with Mickey the Mouse on it. His un-kept hair was topped with an old fedora, the brim of which displayed an Air Force pin, a joker card, and a feather. That pin might have been a pitiful attempt to look impressive, or a genuine souvenir serving as a warning not to underestimate this hat's wearer. Tim decided to watch this man carefully to figure out which it was.

Ned spread his arms. "Tommy-boy!"

Tommy laughed, returning the hug with a pat on the back. "How's Kaaren?"

"Better than ever. A bit down that she can't work in her garden for another six months, but she's already planning out her crop for next spring. Last year her daffodils brought in almost more money than I did!" Ned turned to Tim. "My wife sells flowers in the spring and summer. Brings in a bit of extra dough." Ned suddenly jumped. "Oh! My apologies Tim! This is Tommy Chicago, one of my best informants."

"Pleased to meet'cha!" Tommy shook Tim's hand enthusiastically. "You can actually call me 'Tom' if you want."

"Pleased to meet you Tom." Tim smiled toothily.

"Where we gonna discuss this, Ned?" Tom glanced around the alley. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking right here. Or anywhere in the city, come to think of it…"

"How about my place." Ned offered. "We'll discuss it over lunch. I can introduce Tim to the Missus, and my famous fish and chips!"

 _British food._ Another thing about his time oversees that Tim hadn't missed.

"I've not had fish and chips in a while!" Tim said, managing to fake some enthusiasm.

Tom opened the door to the back seat of his car. "Sounds like a plan then!"

Tom began providing information as soon as the car was out into the country. Tim was grateful to have something to focus on, other than how nervous Tom's driving made him. It wasn't exactly that Tom was a bad driver; on the contrary, he seemed able to swerve and adjust speed to avoid other vehicles, pedestrians and squirrels at the last second every time. But Tom was having entirely too much fun, treating the road like a roller coaster.

"For the love of God, Mr. Chicago," Tim snapped, after a close brush with a bus. "Slow down! You'll get us all killed—or worse, arrested."

"Sorry! Jeeze." Tom brought the speed down a few notches. "So anyway, where was I?"

"The Bird," Ned said.

"The Bird! Right. It's in the possession of Miss Indiana now. Don't ask me where she's locked it up, I've got no clue. But I know she hasn't hocked it yet. The plan is to hold a little auction. But first she wants to spread the word. Miss Indiana knows a lot of big names, and she wants to invite them all to bid on that statue."

Tim's eyebrows moved up, and he began rummaging through his coat for his notepad and pen. "Can you give us a few of those names?"

"I can give 'em to ya," Tom laughed. "But I can't promise you'll believe 'em."

"Try me." Tim readied his pad and pen.

"Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano." Tom said smoothly, as they dipped down a steep hill. "Benjamin Siegel was gonna be invited too, but I guess he won't be able to make it, on account of a slight case of death."

"You're talking about Bugsy Siegel?" Tim's eyes widened, but remained on his notepad. "The guy who built up Las Vegas?"

"That's the one. Only you didn't ever wanna call him 'Bugsy' to his face. He didn't like that." Tom sounded like he was recalling a bad memory. "Anyway, Al Capone's getting an invitation too."

Tim's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, but then he recalled, "Capone's out of prison now, isn't he."

"Yeah, he's living in Florida. But he's not doing so good. He was pretty sick last time I saw him. And he hasn't been too involved in the business since getting out of Alcatraz. I think he's retired. But who knows, he might get himself wheeled over to California to see his old friend's daughter."

Ned looked impressed. "Indiana's old man knew Capone?"

"Are you kidding? Her dad was Henry O'Hara, one of the biggest bootleggers in California! He knew all of the head cheeses in the liquor business during Prohibition."

"You've been working for Miss Indiana long, I take it?" Tim said.

Tom shook his head. "Nope. Only met her last week." He suddenly added, "Oh, I almost forgot, Bugs Moran! He's a family friend of Miss Indiana's, and he's invited to the auction as well."

When Tim didn't respond to this, Ned jogged his memory. "Uh, Bugs Moran, he's the Irish mobster whose men were gunned down by Capone's on Valentine's Day, right?"

"Yep." Tom nodded. "It'll be interesting, seeing _those_ two in a room together."

Tom turned, bringing the car into a gravel driveway. They were at Ned's house, a little baby-blue structure surrounded by trees still clinging to a few red and gold leaves. The cute second-story windows were squeezed between the triangular edges of the brown roof.

Ned's wife Kaaren already had the door opened when the three men stepped out of the car. Kaaren greeted Tommy and Tim with a low, soft voice. She was Hollywood's model of innocent, feminine beauty: petite, pale, and blue-eyed, with dollish makeup, wearing cherry-red dress with a pointed white sailor collar. Her blond curls were pulled back with red ribbons to show off her only abnormal feature: a pair of oddly shaped ears, pointed like Tim's, but with more folds.

The three men continued their discussions in the kitchen, while both Ned and Kaaren worked on lunch. Tom and Tim sat at the table. This was the first time Tim had seen Ned with his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were covered in the same spots and yellow coloring as his face. A less observant person than Tim would've been too distracted by that to have noticed the smaller "spots" on the insides of his arms. Needle marks. Tim felt he might have an explanation for Ned's odd appearance and neurotic personality, not to mention his familiarity with the darker characters of the streets.

Ned caught him looking. Tim cleared his throat. "So you both cook."

"I work part-time as a chef," Ned searched his crowded counter and plucked up the salt. "The Privet-Eye business can be pretty slow at times."

Tom jokingly thumbed over to Kaaren. "And she helps him work on the car when it breaks down, and pumps the gas when they need to fill the tank!"

"Tom, _stop!_ " Kaaren laughed.

After everyone's laughter died down, Tim asked, " _Do_ you help Ned with the car, and…?"

Kaaren's eyes widened. " _Goodness_ no!" She turned back to the soup she was preparing, and chuckled, "What kind of girl do you take me for, Mr. Excelsior?"

Tim shrugged. "Times have been rough, what with the Depression and the War. My own wife had to take work as a maid, all through the Depression, and while I was away fighting in the…" He dropped the subject, realizing he didn't want to talk about his family anymore. He took off his glasses, and began casually cleaning them with his handkerchief. "So, Mr. Felix, Mr. Chicago. What we have to figure out now is, where would Miss Kitty Indiana hide a priceless silver bird statue…?"

* * *

Icheb stared at the screen. "That's Kes, Voyager's former medical assistant. I recognize her image from the ship's database."

Sam Wildman nodded. "She was one of the kindest people I ever knew."

"Same here," Naomi agreed.

Icheb stared at Naomi. "You were a toddler when Kes departed Voyager. And you lack my Borg memory."

"I have a Ktarian memory, remember? Mr. _Borg Memory_?"

"I was never a full drone," Icheb defended lamely. Changing the subject, he asked, "How did a hologram of Kes end up in this program? I doubt Lt. Paris and Ensign Kim deliberately inserted her likeness."

"Probably the same way the senior officers all have names and jobs that mimic their real lives," Sam said. "Either the holodeck is reacting to their subconscious thoughts, or someone's pulling the strings."

"What if it _is_ Kes?" Naomi whispered. "The _real_ Kes? She visited Voyager once before. She evolved into a higher plane…"

Sam shook her head. "If it's her she's doing a damn good job at hiding herself. According to my readings, 'Kaaren' is just an ordinary hologram." Sam sighed, looked back at the screen. "I wonder who else is gonna show up."

* * *

Billie Torres spent the first half of her Saturday browsing antique stores and pawn shops, casually conversing with the owners about their unique items, and in particular, a silver bird statue that she'd "seen somewhere, but couldn't remember where." She and Charles knew the Bird was somewhere in California, and were pretty confident that it was specifically somewhere in San Francisco. But so far, Billie had no new leads.

She hastily exited a dying antique store, while the owner followed her, still desperately trying to talk her into buying a lamp made out of a mannequin's fishnet-covered leg.

"It's beautiful!" Billie called over her shoulder, as she hurried out the door. "And I'd hate for the baby to knock it over." She padded her stomach. "Have a nice day!"

She hurried back onto the street, tucking her red trench coat around her. It was starting to flurry, which was serious weather for California, even in November. She stared at the ground, watching the white snowflakes pile up. She caught her reflection as she walked by a store window, watching the flurries decorate her little red hat, weighing down the tiny feather stuck in its brim.

"Oh!" Billie gasped, as she bumped into another woman. Her hand immediately went to her middle, to ensure that her child was alright.

"Oh goodness, excuse me!" the other woman said quickly.

"I'm sorry," Billie shook her head. "I should watch where I'm—"

"Billie?"

Billie looked up.

The other woman was thin and brunette, huddled in a white fur coat. Her dark hair was swept up into two elegant victory rolls meeting in the middle of her head, almost like horns. The woman's eyebrows where long and severe, her make-up dark and striking. The only feature that might've kept this woman from being a fashion model was the line of ridges running down her nose.

Billie's jaw dropped. " _Seraphine_?" Her lips wavered between nervous laughter and a smile. "Seraphine Chaput?"

"Billie!" Seraphine squealed, and pulled her into a hug. "Billie dearest, how've you been? Oh!" Seraphine glanced down at Billie's baby bump and grinned. "You're married!"

Billie's lips parted, but she didn't respond right away. "Seraphine I'm, I'm glad you're alright! When the Nazis invaded France…"

Seraphine shook her head. "I was fine, dear. Fine. Life didn't change much for a lot of us, in Occupied France. Say, are you hungry? I'll bet the little one is."

It took almost five minutes for Seraphine to talk Billie into letting her take her out to lunch. The two women went to a little café, where a very young boy with a crutch and an English accent stood outside selling newspapers. Billie bought one, and gave the newsie a large tip ("God bless you miss!"). She shook the paper opened as she and Seraphine entered the cafe.

"You looking for something?" Seraphine asked, as Billie flipped through the paper. "Some _one_? The obituaries are in the back."

Billie gave her friend a look, before folding up the paper. "I was looking for the ads actually. I'm, uh, thinking of redecorating at home."

They two women claimed a couple of tall barstool seats by the window, and ate watching the hustle and bustle of the street, their coats draped over the backs of their chairs. It was funny, how little the two women's taste in fashion had changed since high school. Billie was wearing a black and white sailor styled dress, her short dark hair framing her ridges in ironically cute curls. By contrast, Seraphine's dress was far less modest, and tailored as dramatically as her hair and makeup.

"I'll tell you Billie," Seraphine munched her sandwich, gazing out the window. "that exchange program to San Francisco was one of the best times of my life. I always wanted to see America again, after that. And after the War, I decided, to Hell with Europe."

"You fit right in!" Billie shook her head. "Your English was always so perfect, no trace of an accent. I'd never have guessed you were from France, if I hadn't known. I'm so sorry I stopped writing, Seraphine. But, well, times got tough, I lost track of a lot."

"I'd have to say the same." Seraphine said. "Those stinking Nazis really made trying to keep contact across seas impossible. So how've you been, how are your parents?" Seemingly catching herself, Seraphine corrected, "I mean, how's your mother? I'm sorry, I should've remembered."

"It's alright. My mother's okay. She's a cook on a fishing boat down in Orange County." She quickly changed the subject. "What're the odds, both of us, right on this street, in San Francisco? I don't even live in this part of the city, you know. I just came down here for the day."

"You looked like you were in a hurry." Her old school friend eyed her. "You were pretty distracted there. So who's the lucky man?" Seraphine's brown eyes flicked to Billie's stomach again.

Billie was silent. Seraphine watched her fiddle with her gloves, and finally took the hint.

"Well don't feel bad," her friend said. "I haven't been doing too well for myself either." Seraphine's eyes shifted, as if in embarrassment. "I'm a maid," she said finally. "Gotta pay the bills somehow, at least until I can find myself a wealthy man."

Billie now remembered one of the things that had always annoyed her about her old friend. While Billie had spent high school working towards, well, working—teacher, secretary, mechanic, Billie didn't care what, just as long as her mind was kept awake—Seraphine had never voiced any ultimate goal other than landing herself a loaded husband.

"The one I work for now's got it made," Seraphine shrugged. "And he's single. Bit old though. And not exactly handsome. I swear, I spend over half my work day just dusting and polishing off his collections."

"What kind of collections?" Billie failed to hide the sudden interest of her voice.

Seraphine continued, as if she hadn't noticed. "Gems, statues, ancient artifacts. Mickey Kazon—that's my employer—he's a collector. He's got friends." She eyed Billie meaningfully.

Billie's voice dropped into a whisper. "Seraphine are you working for a _gangster_?"

Seraphine pursed her long lips. "I've never really asked him. It's not exactly the kind of thing that comes up during your typical conversation."

"I work for a collector too," Billie said carefully. "He's an anthropologist." She hesitated, then whispered, "Seraphine, can you keep a secret?"

Seraphine shifted on her stool, looking excited to hear the gossip. "I just arrived in America two weeks ago," the Frenchwoman said quietly. "Who would I tell?"

"Your employer."

Seraphine rolled her eyes. "Mr. Kazon and I barely even talk. He's half-deaf. C'mon Billie, what's the gossip?"

Billie's eyes moved around the crowded café, to ensure that no one was paying attention to them. Under the minimal noise of the restaurant, Billie said in a low voice, "I'm looking for a silver statue of a bird." Seraphine's eyes slowly widened, as Billie gave a quick description of the statue. "We tracked it to this part of the city. Seraphine, this isn't just about money. That Bird was my father's, it belongs to my family. I've got no one, Seraphine. My Tommy left me, my father left me. My mother's working as a maid for some sea captain, because the two of us together couldn't afford to support her or put her in a rest home, and my baby's going to grow up fatherless just like—" Billie stopped, feeling the lump form in her throat.

Seraphine reached into her low top and pulled a handkerchief up from between her breasts. A couple of male heads turned in the café. A bearded old man who looked a bit like Leonardo da Vinci glanced up from his newspaper, and got stuck staring. Outside the window, the newsie clutched his crutch, looking like he'd just hit puberty. Seraphine offered Billie the handkerchief.

Billie wiped away the forming tear with a finger. "I'm fine Seraphine, but thanks."

Seraphine shrugged, and stuffed the handkerchief back in. Billie feared "da Vinci" would have a heart attack.

"Mick—Mr. Kazon—he had a statue like that." Seraphine whispered. "I haven't seen it around, so maybe he's sold it. But if you'd like, I can possibly arrange a time for you two to talk. Maybe he'd be willing to sell it to you, or if you're too late, tell you who he's sold it to."

"You'd do that for me?"

"What are friends for?"

* * *

Samantha Wildman spoke slowly. "Who the hell put _Seska_ in this program?"

" _That's_ Seska?" Naomi moved to get a better look.

"In her Bajoran form," Sam said.

"And Kes," Lt. Vorik added. "Crude as Lt. Paris's sense of humor can be, I am confident he would not subject Chakotay and Lt. Torres to Seska again, nor intentionally remind Neelix of his failed relationship with Kes."

From the warp core, Ensign Muhammad Ashmore commented, "I don't recall anyone complaining when Seska showed up in 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

"True," the Vorik said. "But Tuvok wrote that program long before Seska was revealed to be a Cardassian, and when Kes was still with Neelix. It simply would not make sense for Paris and Kim to include a departed friend and a personal enemy in this program. Assuming no one intentionally caused this situation, I suggest that some manner of anomaly has caused a malfunction with the holodeck and the senior staff's minds, and is writing the program based on subconscious suggestions from their memories."

Sam made a face and shrugged. "Makes about as much sense as anything on this voyage."

Naomi's eyebrows turned up, as she attempted an analysis. "So Kes and Seska…came out of Neelix and B'Elanna's subconscious?"

Icheb offered, "If someone is controlling this simulation, it might be easier to simply pull people up from the victim's real memories, rather than trying to create new characters from 'scratch.'" He cocked his head at the screen. "Curious."

"What?" Sam asked.

"The clock in Professor Libert—pardon me, Commander Chakotay's office. All the clocks. They've skipped several hours in the last few seconds."

"Holodeck time," Sam explained. "Speeds up the game."

* * *

After lunch, Tim and Ned spent the afternoon talking to contacts that had information on Kitty Indiana. They decided to finish the day with a little trip to Indiana's club, the Queen's Cabin. Tim felt they were both a bit under-dressed, as they neared the flashing neon sign. A melting pot of people were pouring in—whites, blacks, Asians and more—but all of them were dressed in elegant evening wear. And standing out was not something the two detectives wanted tonight.

"Shame Tom couldn't join us," Tim muttered to Ned. "He'd have been useful right about now."

"That he would have," Ned eyed the pirate queen on the sign above them. "But Tommy's supposed to be running other errands for Kitty tonight. Anyway, I want someone to keep an eye on Kaaren, whenever I think I might getting involved in something dangerous."

Tim nodded. "There were times I left Janelle with a loaded pistol, and asked her not to answer the door before looking out the window to see who it was."

Ned shook his head. "Kaaren wouldn't know how to use a gun. And she's far too good-hearted and naive for her own good."

Tim was slightly disturbed by how Ned seemed to regard his wife like a child. Granted, men generally underestimated women, and would continue to do so until society underwent some much-needed change; but even for current times, Ned's dismissive attitude towards Kaaren was disconcerting. But perhaps over-protectiveness was typical in a May-December romance like theirs.

The club was packed, and Tim almost feared they wouldn't be able to get a table. But to his relief, they were seated near the middle of the room. They sipped drinks and smoked, trying to look like they were relaxing, while taking in as much of the club as they could. A gorgeous blond woman sang on the stage in a sleeveless, glittering red dress, and purple gloves that passed her elbows. It was some low, sultry tune Tim didn't recognize.

"… _if you had prepared…twenty years ago! …Ya wouldn't be a-wanderin' now from door to door, why don't'cha do right…like some other men do_ …"

Tim found himself distracted less by the woman's beauty than by the metallic-looking disfigurements on her face. This poor girl could probably have landed a contract with Hollywood if not for that. He had to admire Indiana for hiring her.

Everyone else here looked like they were high on the social food chain. At one table, a famous female golfer and an opera singer listened while a European baron told some them outlandish big fish story about riding a canon ball and visiting the moon. At another table, a mob boss with a hook for a hand smoked two cigars through some forked tube, while talking to a corrupt politician. Over in the corner, a wealthy and sour looking old man drank by himself, grumbling "humbug" to anyone who attempted to say hello.

At the table next to Tim's, a brunette actress was describing a death scene to an apparently corrupt police officer, who kept interrupting her with boasts about how much he'd won at the illegal roulette wheel downstairs.

"I need to nail this scene. My death is what sends the protagonist spiraling into insanity."

" _I'm_ gonna spiral into insanity if Miss Indiana doesn't get the game room back up and running soon!"

The actress sighed, and began digging into her slice of blue cake.

Tim's pointed ears seemed unable to filter out the gossip around him. The baron's story was growing more ridiculous. "You know of course, about the people of the moon, and their detachable heads..." Why did the massacre of logic in such fairy stories offend Tim so much? Why couldn't he just shrug this stupidity off like the next person would?

He decided to focus on the conversation of another nearby table, where a doctor with a sharp goatee was finishing up a long, science-related joke for his blond trophy wife and some friends.

"…and the scientist says, 'that's not a Marian, that's my wife!'"

Tim was at a loss as to why everyone was now roaring with laughter. He'd never gotten the hang of humor. Or most forms of social interaction. There was a reason Tim didn't usually come to places like this. Seeing these men and women interacting so casually sometimes made him feel like he was on the wrong planet.

"There!" Ned whispered, and pointed with his cigar. "I think that's her."

Tim looked in the direction Ned was pointing, and saw a regal-looking woman chatting with her bartender. The top of her dress was snug-fitting black velvet, the long skirt made of a smoother, gold material. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled up into two long roles that curved around her head like a crown, coming together at the center over her forehead. A gold eye-patch, made from the same material as her skirt, covered one eye.

"That's Kitty Indiana." Tim agreed.

Ned whispered, "How should we go about this?"

"With patience." Tim cautioned. "We observe. Watch where she goes when she's not with her guests. What doors she uses, which keys she opens them with."

"Reconnaissance mission!" Ned whispered enthusiastically. "Got'cha!"

Tim repressed a sigh and moved his eyes back around the room, not wanting to be caught staring at the lady of the house.

By the stage where the blond was singing, a young Asian man was headed towards the backstage door with a clarinet. Tim saw the musician steal a glance at him, and then another at Ned, before slipping through the door.

* * *

Charles regained consciousness rather quickly this time. The crowd was still cheering for his opponent, Michael "the Left Hook Leprechaun" Sullivan. That was good; it was extremely irritating to wake up in a hospital. His head still throbbing, he pushed himself up, and was helped out of the ring by his trainer Boothby. It always hurt Charles' pride a little to lose a match, even on purpose. But watching men in the audience not-so-discretely swapping cash, as bets were won and lost, reminded him of the wad of bills he'd find under his office door come Monday.

"You did good son," Boothby led him through the crowd. "Not as good as in your _real_ fights, but I suppose we all could use a little extra dough here and there."

"Point taken." Chuck snapped.

"Hmm? Oh I'm not criticizing you sonny! Throwing matches for money's one of the oldest traditions in the—"

"Oy, Double-T!"

The voice belonged to Karl, an errand boy who sometimes sold papers on the corner outside the building. The boy only knew Charles as the "Tattooed Terror," and had shorted it to "Double-T." Poor Karl was a misfit due to his unusual looks, having orange-tinted skin, a strange forehead, and horrific hair. The boy always tried to hide his fungus-shaped locks beneath his newsie cap, to no avail. But Chakotay and everyone else, Karl included, did an impeccable job at pretending they didn't notice.

"Double-T, hey! Man at the desk says you got a phone call from a guy named Billy!"

"Thanks, kid."

On instinct Charles almost ruffled Karl's hair, before quickly withdrawing his hand. He wasn't certain if the condition that caused such head-growths and skin colorization was contagious, and he was far too polite to ask. He gave Karl a smiling nod before moving on through the crowd.

Billie had agreed to call Charles that night, so they could exchange updates on their hunt for the Bird. He didn't even bother going to the front desk to confirm who'd called him.

As Charles moved through the crowd, he thought he saw a familiar face. A brunette woman, with sharp eyebrows and a ridged nose. If it was who he thought it was, he realized he shouldn't be surprised. But even so, he hoped to god it wasn't.

He left the gym and went straight to the pay phone in the hallway.

Karl called after him, "Hey Double-T, I've been thinking about my name, when the boys accept me into their gang. I can't decide on Karl the Bullet or Karl Trench Sweeper. Whadda you—?"

"Whichever one rhymes better," Charles said half-listening.

He almost tried picking the phone up with his gloves on. He yanked and the laces with this teeth. By the time Boothby caught up to him, Charles had both gloves off.

"Need a nickel?" his trainer offered him one.

Charles realized his mistake, and took the coin. "Thanks." Boothby was still standing there, while he was dialing. "I'll pay you back."

"You don't have to." Boothby took the gloves from him. "I'll put these away for you."

"Thanks," Charles didn't move. "…G'night Boothby."

Boothby gave him a look, finally taking the hint, and left.

Billie didn't have a home phone. Only seriously well-off people did. He called her apartment complex, and asked for Billie Torres. Billie was apparently waiting right there in the lounge for him to call back, and was at the phone in seconds.

Instead of saying hello his secretary asked, " _How's the headache?_ "

"What makes you think I lost?"

" _Just a guess. Listen Charles, I think I have a lead on our bird_."

"What's the name?"

" _Mickey Kazon. An old friend of mine works for him. I bumped into her this afternoon. We went to high school together. She's a maid now, working for Kazon. He's probably involved with organized crime, but she doesn't know which one. He's a collector, and she said he had a statue exactly like_ —"

"You told her about the Bird?" Charles wasn't sure if he was angry, but his voice definitely had an edge to it.

" _She's one of my oldest friends Charles, I can trust her. She says Kazon had it, but he doesn't anymore. He might've sold it, or else someone stole it. She's arranged for me to meet with him tomorrow, and we'll discuss it. Far as I know, there's nothing illegal about trying to buy back a family heirloom, so I don't see why we need all the secrecy anyw_ —"

"We might not be able to buy it, even if the current owner doesn't know it's real worth."

Silence.

"Listen, I don't want you going to talk with that man without me. What time are you scheduled to meet him?"

" _One. In the afternoon_."

"I'll pick you up. We'll go together."

" _All right_."

They wrapped up the conversation, and Chuck told Billie a little bit about his fight. After that he changed, and went outside to call down a cab. Tonight was really his night; there was a taxi sitting right out front, almost as if he were expected. Charles pulled up the collar of his trench coat, and pulled his fedora down a bit, hoping to hide some of his injuries; he didn't want to frighten the driver. The window was rolled down.

"This cab taken?" Charles asked.

"Matter of fact it is," the bucktoothed cabbie replied, "but the lady won't mind sharin.' She's one of my regulars."

Charles hadn't realized that cab drivers _had_ "regulars," but shrugged and got inside. Before he could even tell the driver where he wanted to go, the other door suddenly opened, and a brunette woman slid in, flicking her unfinished cigarette out onto the street. The car was taking off before she'd even pulled the door shut. The woman's face was hidden by a little black veil, dangling from her tiny barrette. He wondered what the "disguise" was for, since he obviously knew who she was.

"Hello Charles," she said, pulling a pistol from her fur coat and pointing it at him.

Charles sighed.

His eyes flicked to the cab's mirror, to see the driver's reaction. There was none. The guy kept the car moving forward, like this was all part of the plan. The woman smiled.

Charles had just spent seven rounds getting rid of all his anger from the week, and now it was boiling back up. Glowering at her, he returned her greeting. "Seraphine."


	4. Mad Love

Seraphine's long lips twisted into a smile. "How long has it been, Charles?"

"Roughly a week, as usual," he said flatly.

Charles noticed the cab driver's dumbfounded expression in the mirror. He seemed to think Charles was taking his kidnapping at gunpoint a bit too well. Fact was, Charles had seen far worse situations in the War. On top of that, he often froze up under pressure, coming across as expressionless and monotone. It often worked in his favor, giving the impression that nothing affected him. Unfortunately, Seraphine knew him better, and could tell she was intimidating him.

Avoiding Seraphine's gaze, Charles' dark eyes flicked to the window. "Where are we going."

"We're just going for a ride around the neighborhood." Seraphine kept the gun trained on Charles.

"At least fifty people know I was in this neighborhood—"

"For _heaven's sake_ Charles, I'm not gonna dump you in a river. I just want to talk."

He sighed. "If this is about the money we owe you,"

"It is." Her voice became icy. "We had a deal Charles. I agreed to give you the information I knew under the condition you wouldn't share it with anybody. And five minutes ago I see you talking about it on the phone to someone named 'Billy,' right in the middle of the hall! Who is Billy anyway, one of your old Code Talker buddies?"

"Maybe."

Charles wished he hadn't taken Billie's call. He should've used a pay phone to call her back, somewhere discrete. But at least Seraphine didn't seem to know who Billie was, mistaking her for a "Billy" with a "y."

Seraphine wrinkled her already segmented nose. " _Crimeny_. When I suggested that treasure hunt I didn't expect you to actually do it. Much less convince someone else to help you."

"As if I had any other choice." Charles nodded at the driver. "This crackerjack a new addition to your boy-toy collection, or is he just an heirloom you inherited from your poor departed husband?"

The driver's face scrunched in confusion, as he struggled to work out what Charles had just asked.

Seraphine clicked her tongue at Charles. "Chuckles, is that how you normally speak to a recently widowed woman, whose going out of her way to help you?"

He cringed at the pet-name she'd assigned him. "No, it's how I talk to a Nazi spy who married a rich cartoonist for his money and then murdered him in his sleep."

"If only you had proof of any of that. Then you could probably save your whole tribe with the reward money. But since you don't, you have no choice but to accept my help."

Long before the United States had entered the War, Hitler was already preparing for when they would. It was a little known fact that in the 1930s, a number of Nazis posing as anthropologists had visited America and tried cozying up to some Indian tribes, in an attempt to learn their languages. Most failed hilariously. But while "Seraphine" (or whatever her real name was) had failed to learn anything important from Charles, she'd succeeded in fooling him for a good two years, and he'd never recovered from the shame. But he'd managed to push that pain aside for a while, as he served in the War as a soldier and Code Talker. He'd run into Seraphine again a few times, each experience with her less pleasant than the last.

After victory was won, Charles and his fellow Indian soldiers were commended for their service, and then returned to putting up with the same Jim Crow bullshit as before. Granted, things had improved a bit overall since the War. But to say things were "better" for Indians now was like saying that the Wicked Witch of the West had "better" looks than her flying monkeys. The last couple of years had been the worst Charles' tribe had seen since the Depression. Too small and obscure to obtain federal "recognition" and receive a reservation, they lived on land rented from the state government. And they were now in danger of not being able to continue paying for it.

Enter wannabe cartoonist Gill Evekson. His soul as ugly as his scaled, spoon-headed face (cosmetic surgery gone wrong, supposedly), Evekson had been the first to bid for the land, should the tribe get evicted. Evekson, who fancied himself a competitor to Walt Disney, was looking to build a theme park for his virtually unknown character Vicky Vole, before Walt could do something similar for Micky Mouse. For Charles' people to lose their home to Mickey would've been bad enough, but to lose out to a badly-drawn rodent that the average child didn't know or care about would be downright ludicrous. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Seraphine was somehow back in the States, married to the scum who wanted to steal their land, and her powerful social connections made it impossible to pin her as a Nazi.

The plot had thickened when Gill Evekson was found murdered in his bed with a tin sculpture of his own character, Vicky Vole's long sharp tail embedded in his chest. Evekson's "devastated" (and newly wealthy) widow Seraphine told the press that she was considering going through with building the theme park, to honor her poor husband's memory; but of course, if the tribe came up with the money to keep their land before she got the chance, she'd have to build Vicky's Burrow somewhere else.

"What's so funny." Seraphine demanded, her gun still trained on Charles.

Charles hadn't even realized he'd been chuckling to himself. "I'm just trying to picture you building Vole Land. Or sleeping with Evekson for that matter."

"Why don't you let me?" Seraphine taunted. "You don't even live on your tribe's land. And I'm in no position to force you to do anything, once you leave this car anyway."

"And leave everyone else to be screwed over by you. Not an option."

"That's what I always loved about you Charles, you're noble to the point of self-destruction. Of course, I'm being a lot nicer than most spies would to their targets. But I don't get credit for that since I'm on the 'wrong side' and all."

"Were you being 'nice' to me when you had your Nazi friends get the drop on in Europe and use me as a piñata?"

"Considering they just wanted to kill you, yes, I think it was pretty nice of me to convince them you were a useful prisoner. I could just leave you and your people to rot. But instead I'm giving you a chance to buy your land back. I've been giving you information on where to find the Bird. And all I'm asking in return is one or two gems off its wing as a little tip."

"Why?" Confident she didn't want him dead just yet, he allowed emotion to creep back into his voice. "Why do you want the Bird? What's the matter, your Nazi friends wouldn't share any of the silver and gold they looted from the Jews and Gypsies and Pols they gassed? Figured you'd hop over here and loot the Indians, before Hitler reached us first? Well you're a little late, your fuehrer's dead."

"Yes, I know. I read the papers." She cocked her head, looking at him innocently. "You know I never really believed in the Nazi regime. They threatened to kill my mother if I didn't help them."

"That would've been some accomplishment, considering you told me both your parents died when you were six."

Seraphine pursed her lips like a schoolgirl caught in a fib. Switching topics, she said, "I came here to give you a new lead." Keeping her pistol trained on him, she used her other hand to fish out a scrap of paper from her coat and chucked it at him. "Here."

Charles caught the paper in the air between his fingers. Unfolding it, he found it was an article cut from a newspaper. At the top was a portrait of a Colored man, with a long face and heavy-lidded eyes. His ears and eyebrows were pointed, and the eyes behind his round glasses were almost devoid of expression. His thin mustache made Charles think of _Gone With the Wind._ The article was dated 1945. Skimming it, Charles found it described the man as a Harlem P.I., who'd solved some big murder case right after returning from serving in the War.

"This guy's got my statue?"

"Not yet. But he's close. To the Bird _and_ to you. He's here in San Francisco. Follow him, and he'll lead you to it." She leaned in. "Good luck, Charles." Her hand came over to caress his face.

Batting her hand away he said, "Go to hell."

"I plan to. Or anyway a place about as hot. You find that Bird and we'll have enough money for you to save your tribe from eviction, and for me to split to Argentina."

"You're trying to flee the country now? Guess your cover's not as tight as you thought."

Her brown eyes moved away from him, her face contorting in irritated embarrassment.

"So," Charles said, "Wanna tell me why I shouldn't phone the police as soon as I've found the statue, and tell them I know a Nazi collaborator in the U.S.?"

Seraphine turned to her driver. "Pull over."

The car screeched to a halt.

They were on the outskirts of the city, by the beach. It would have been pitch black if not for the city lights. No one else was around, no sound except hundreds of crickets chirping loudly. The driver turned and rested one arm over the back of his seat. He watched Seraphine and Charles, looking amused.

Seraphine turned back to Charles. "I have powerful friends out here, Chuckles. I have powerful friends all over the world, and I'll always find you. If you tell anyone about my past political affiliations, I'll have them killed. And if you tell anyone about this little meeting tonight, I'll kill them myself. What was your friend's name, Billy? Tell him, and I won't just kill Billy. If Billy has a wife, children, a dog, a _pregnant_ wife," Charles blood turned cold. "a grandmother…"

Seraphine suddenly brought her gun around. Her bucktoothed driver had time to widen his eyes, in the split second before she shot him.

Charles was frozen against his seat, unable to look away from the red windshield. He felt the cold gun barrel against the side of his head, and Seraphine's hot breath in his ear.

"Don't make a sound now."

In the car mirror, he could see her holding him hostage. She pulled a handkerchief from her breasts. Once, long ago, he'd have found that cute and funny. She slammed the cloth over his nose and mouth. It reeked of some kind of chemical. His head began to feel heavy.

And then she said something that was just plain weird. Or maybe he wasn't hearing her right. It was hard to tell, with the chemicals weighing his head down.

"Don't worry," she purred in his ear. "This is just another bad vision quest."

* * *

"Hey!" Samantha Wildman said sharply. "Anyone catch that?" Softening her voice, Sam asked her daughter, "You alright Naomi?"

Naomi nodded, but clearly looked disturbed. The fact that the man she'd just watched getting shot was a hologram was little consolation.

"The 'vision quest' reference?" Vorik said in response to Sam's first question. "Indeed. Either the program is malfunctioning, or 'Seska' is being controlled by someone who knows Chakotay."

A fatigued Tabor added, "Or Chakotay's character just practices vision quests in this program. His branch of humans have been going on vision quests for eons, haven't they?"

"But 'vision quest' to most Indians doesn't mean what it does to Chakotay's tribe," Sam said. "Outside Chakotay's New Age group, vision quests are basically just meditations, if I understand correctly. Seska seemed to be referring specifically to Chakotay's fever-dream machine. Don't tell him I called it that."

"I won't." Tabor squinted at the screen. He wrinkled his nose, causing his Bajoran ridges to scrunch like an accordion. "If the crew's subconscious is somehow being used to write this program, then that could account for Seska's comment."

"Alternate theory," Naomi said. "It's the Seska hologram from Tuvok's old program that I never go to play—"

"We deleted that program," Tabor said quickly. "B'Elanna had us do everything to double check that every trace of Seska's hologram and that program were gone from Voyager. And believe me, of all people on board who'd be most determined to make sure Seska never got the upper hand again, a good _most_ of them work in Engineering."

* * *

After the blond woman finished her song, she exited the stage and a troop of jazz players took her place. It might've been Ned's imagination, but he could have sworn that the young Asian man playing the clarinet was continuously sealing glances at him and Mr. Excelsior.

The blonde took a seat by herself, near the stage. Such a glamorous-looking girl, in that glistening red dress and purple gloves, looked a bit out of place sitting by herself. When she ordered a glass of water from the waiter, Ned noted how her voice, though polite, held none of the smooth seduction it had when she'd been singing. Actually, she was reminding him a lot of Tim right now, with her stiff posture and voice. She looked like she was trying to fit in and act casual, but secretly didn't know how. It was almost as if she and Tim had arrived here in a rocket ship from some alien planet, and were trying desperately to act human.

"I've got a plan Mr. Excelsior," Ned whispered to his partner. "That singer must have access to a back room. She seems like someone you would get along with. You can strike up a conversation with her, maybe trick her into giving away where the keys are and which door she uses. I can go have a word with Miss Indiana, keep her distracted."

Tim spun his cigarette between his fingers. "Mr. Felix, maybe it's different 'across the pond.' But here in America, it is never a good idea for a Colored man to try 'striking up a conversation' with a blonde white woman, in public at least."

Ned frowned, and looked around at the melting pot of people in the café. "But we're in California, Tim. I thought that sort of thing was more of a concern in, in places like…"

Tim popped one pointed eyebrow. "Like Georgia."

Ned recalled that Tim had grown up on a farm in the South. No wonder he was such a cautious man. Ned realized, suddenly, that while he had a great network of connections and a smooth social manner among California's criminals and lowlifes, he knew practically nothing about the classier America's social rules. Britain—at least the Britain he'd grown up in—wasn't very diverse, so if there were any rules regarding how the races should interact, Ned hadn't learned them. In this melting pot of California, he'd just treated everyone the same.

"You know more about the matter than me," Ned admitted. "How about if I talk to the girl, and you go meet Indiana."

"That might be a more logical plan."

Though Kitty was also a "white woman," it was a very different situation. She wouldn't come across as being sexually vulnerable to most, like the singer. And her being the lady of the house, speaking to a mere patron, would make Tim look like the less powerful one. It wouldn't draw much attention.

Ned glanced back at the stage. The young man in with the clarinet was definitely looking at them now.

Tim suddenly elbowed Ned. "Now." He pushed himself up from his chair, gathering up his drink and joint.

Kitty Indiana was speaking to her bald bartender, her gold eye-patch glistening under the mirror ball.

"Tim wait, what's our story?"

"We're looking for jobs." Tim said without missing a beat.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed at Tim, liking the idea.

While Tim casually crossed the room to the bar, Ned picked up his glass and approached the blond woman's table.

"Is someone sitting here?" he asked, placing his hand on the empty chair.

The woman froze, with her glass of water in the air. Her blue eyes were stuck on him, conveying some mixture of surprise and terror, with a side of _You're joking, right?_

"Well don't look at me like I'm bloody Frankenstein," Ned said jovially. "It's just a yes-no question."

"No, no one is sitting here." The woman sipped her water, her thick black lashes fluttering.

As Ned took a seat, he suddenly realized that the woman might fear he was flirting with her. So he added, "My wife loves that last song you did, it's one of her favorites. I think she'd have liked the way you performed it."

The woman instantly seemed to relax. "Thank you."

Ned glanced back at the bar, where Tim was talking to Indiana. "Did it, ah, take you long to get this job?"

"No." The girl shook her head, causing her ruby earrings to sway. "I've known Kitty Indiana for a few years. This job was really just handed to me."

"Oh. Well, I'm an accomplished chef, always on the lookout for new gigs. Would you call this a good place to work, Miss…?"

"Annie. Annie Hanson." She smiled politely, but made no effort to hide her eyes moving up and down Ned's odd face. "And you are?"

 _Annie Hanson_. Tommy Chicago had given Ned and Tim that name. She was "in the know" on Bird statue plot.

"Oh I'm sorry! Nathanial Felix, but friends call me Ned. At least they would if I had any friends," he chuckled.

Annie smiled at the clichéd joke. "Pleased to meet you Ned." She was warming up to him, he could tell. "I don't think I've seen you in here before. This your first time here, in the Cabin?"

"It is. I don't normally come to places this fancy, but a little bird told me Miss Indiana might be hiring."

Annie hesitated before sipping her water again.

"I'm not certain if Kitty's hiring right now," Annie said smoothly. "But I'm sure you'll have time to ask her tonight. She always makes rounds to talk to her customers. Out of curiosity, what kind of job…?"

"Chef. You haven't lived until you've tasted by gumbo! I used to cook for my whole troop when I was serving for England." Ned allowed himself to reminisce. "My pal Jimmy—rest his soul—said when he tasted my Swedish meatballs, it took him back in time to when he was a kid, no War, no Nazis, no—"

Annie's glass almost slipped out of her hand, but she caught it.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Ned said quickly.

His "little bird" comment had been one-hundred percent deliberate, but Ned had no idea what he'd said this time.

Annie flashed a strained smile. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tired. It's been a long week."

Ned nodded. "Well, maybe you should," he shrugged, "grab a short nap before your next song."

Annie's blue eyes went to a little staircase against the wall, just a few yards from their table. Without looking at Ned, she replied, "I think I'll be fine. I just need to rehydrate myself." She raised her glass for another sip.

Had he been too obvious? Ned wondered. Or was it just his abnormal spotted face and Mohawk that was distracting her? He glanced over at the bar. Tim was laughing with Miss Indiana. Now there was something you didn't see often: Tim Excelsior laughing.

"Oh!" Ned feigned surprise. "There's Miss Indiana now! I think I'll take your advice, ask her about the job. Thanks for your help, Miss Hanson, pleasure to meet you!" He went to dip his hat, then remembered he'd left it on his and Tim's table.

Annie smiled. "Pleasures' all mine. Good luck!"

As Ned moved across the room to the bar, he glanced over his shoulder once more. The singer's blue eyes were fixed on her drink.

Tim and Indiana were leaning on the bar's counter. Tim was finishing up a joke.

"…and then the German says, 'that's not the Fuhrer, that's my wife!'"

Kitty Indiana almost spit out her drink.

"I like you Mr. Excelsior!" Indiana patted him on the shoulder. "You're hired."

Ned felt his jaw dropped. Tim met his eyes, and behind the glasses, the other detective looked equally surprised.

"Just like that?" Tim asked Miss Indiana.

"Just like that." Indiana repeated. "I want my Roulette Wheel back up and running as soon as possible."

Tim took notice of Ned, and suddenly gestured to him with his glass. "Miss Indiana! Meet one of my oldest friends, Ned Felix!"

Ned extended his hand, meaning to take Indiana's and kiss it. But instead, she grabbed it like a man and shook it firmly.

"Mr. Felix! Are you job hunting too?"

It took him a second to respond. "Oh yes! Yes, I'm a chef, and you haven't lived until you've tasted my chips and fish…"

Behind the bar, in the mirrored wall behind the shelves of alcohol bottles, Ned could see Annie Hanson now standing by the edge of the stage. The clarinet player knelt to speak with her, holding his clarinet almost like a rifle. Annie was whispering something urgent into his ear.

"Sorry," Ned caught himself. "I was uh, distracted by how—"

"—much I look like Katharine Hepburn," Indiana nodded quickly, as if she heard this daily. "You can both get started right away if you'd like."

"Thank you," Tim said quickly. "But we promised both our wives we'd be home before midnight."

Kitty checked a stylish gold clock behind the bar. It was almost one in the morning. "It looks like you're already late. I'm sorry to've kept you."

"Not a problem!" Tim held up one hand.

They bid Indiana goodbye, and crossed back through the crowd, towards the door.

"Why are we _really_ leaving?" Ned whispered. "You have no wife to get home to, and mine is safe and sound."

"Because," Tim whispered, back to his serious self. "I need to figure out how the game of Roulette works, before I start the job." He added, "I think I may also want to figure out which regular players are the most important to please. Miss Indiana's last Roulette Man suffered a tragic accident a week ago, when he tripped down a staircase—and onto some bullets."

"Oh my word…"

Once they were back onto the street, Tim made a suggestion. "If you get this job, perhaps Kaaren can accompany us to the club. She's got an agreeable personality, she'd probably make a good informant."

"No, no and no!" Ned shook his head fiercely. "Kaaren is far too beautiful to be left on her own in a place like that."

"Yet you'll leave her alone with that cab driver?" Tim asked dryly.

Ned laughed. "Tom's not Kaaren's type. She may be willing to put up with me, but she'd never stoop _that_ low!"

* * *

White, lacy curtains billowed in the breeze. It was still dark out. The little clock on the bed stand said it was past one in the morning. Tom had already put his underpants and undershirt back on, and was pulling on his trousers. Kaaren sat on the bed, in her pale purple night slip and ruffled panties. Her blond curls were tousled over her head in tangles, her red ribbons almost completely undone.

"Well," Kaaren sighed softly. "I suppose I'd best make myself back up for Ned."

"Why don't you just go to sleep?" Tom threw his shirt back on and began to button it up. "I'll be downstairs reading the funnies in the paper, and tell Ned I was there and you were up here all night."

Kaaren shook her head. "I couldn't sleep a wink, Tom. I'll be up all night worrying about him anyway."

Tom scoffed. "You didn't seem too 'worried' about him a few minutes ago."

Kaaren looked away, towards the window. "There's someone else, isn't there Tom."

"Maybe." Tom searched the floor for his Porky Pig socks. "It'd only make us even, wouldn't it?"

He got down on all fours to look under the bed, and finally located one sock.

"Who's Billie?"

Tom paused, his arm under the bed.

"You've called me Billie a few times."

Tom shook his head, and finished digging out the sock. "Someone I don't deserve."

"But apparently you're good enough for _me_?"

Tom came back up and glared at her. " _You_ came begging to _me_ Kaaren. All that talk about how you couldn't stand being Ned's wife," he tugged on his sock. "How he treats you like a child, won't ever let you have fun." He glanced at the empty champagne glasses on the windowsill, and the ashtray of cigarette butts. "You specifically told me that all you wanted was to 'have fun.' You never made 'true love' a requirement."

"Yes but," she looked at the floor. "When you said, that other night, after you took me to see that cowboy picture…how I made you forget about all your troubles…and I just…felt the same way about you."

Great, she was crying now.

Not loudly, at least. Just a couple of tears.

"Ah," Tom moved onto the bed, with one sock on, and put his arm around her. "I'm sorry doll, I really am. I just think…" he gaped, searching for the words. "Maybe we've taken this little adventure as far as we—"

A flash of light out the window caught his attention. Ned's car was pulling up. Tom swore. Kaaren quickly stashed the ashtray, glasses, and empty champagne bottle in the trash can, and tied the trash bag shut.

"He'll smell it," Tom warned.

"Then I was doing it on my own. Because I was just curious." Kaaren hurried back under the covers, and shoed Tom away. "Go!"

Tom gave up looking for his other sock, and pulled his shoe onto his bare foot, before ducking into the water closet. _I came upstairs to check on Kaaren…because…I thought she was in trouble, but she was just talking in her sleep. Then I went to use the toilet._

Tom came down the stairs a couple minutes later, to find Ned locking the door, and Tim looking out the living room window.

"We having company soon?" Tom leaped over the staircase railing, and grabbed his coat from the sofa, rummaging for the pistol in the pocket.

"Don't think so," Tim's eyes were still on the window, but he held out a waving hand to Tom. "Ned thought someone might've been following us, but I think we're safe for now."

"How's Kaaren?" Ned asked.

"Fast asleep. I just checked on her, before using the loo." Tom stretched. "Y'know Ned, sometimes I think you don't give her enough credit. She's survived a lot after all."

"She's survived more than any girl should have to." Ned said bitterly, checking the windows with Tim. "When I saved Kaaren from that ghetto, I promised her I'd never let anything happen to her again."

Tim, whose hands were parting the curtains of another window, turned to Ned. "I don't believe I'd heard this one."

"Kaaren's German." Ned said. "They were Christian and ethnically German, but her father was a priest who opposed Hitler. Her whole family was already gone by time I met her. Kaaren would've gone to a camp if my troop hadn't shown up just in the nick of time."

Tom had heard far more detailed accounts from Kaaren herself. He didn't like to be reminded of anything related to the War. In fact, he didn't like to be reminded of most things in his life prior to his coming to California.

"I'm thinking of taking her out to a movie this week," Ned mentioned offhandedly.

The mention of the movies immediately had Tom tensing visibly, as he and Karen had just been to the theater earlier that week. Tim noticed, his eyes flicking to Tom under his heavy lids, but he said nothing.

"That cowboy one looks interesting," Ned said, still talking to himself.

Quickly Tom suggested, "How about that 'Saint Claire' one? They're saying it's the next 'Casablanca.'" And that one, Tom had seen by himself, during a particularly lonely night after several drinks.

Ned gave it some thought. "That's the one where Katharine Hepburn runs a night club, but it's actually a base for the French Resistance, right? And Rita Hayworth is their singer, and Peter Lorre's their bicycle messenger?"

"And Humphrey Bogart is leading the American army," Tom added. "That's the one!"

Actually, that movie had been painful for Tom. Specifically, the romantic subplot between Madeline Le Beau and the young American soldier whose actor Tom had forgotten. During the scene where the two lovers reunited, with guns pointed at each other, Tom had suddenly found himself inescapably reminded of Billie. And then again, when Le Beau revealed her pregnancy by a Nazi soldier to her former lover. Maybe it had been the alcohol he'd had before, or the way Le Beau's character had shared Billie's feisty personality, or both. But in any case, Tom wanted to forget it all, and fast.

"Any luck with the Bird?" Tom asked casually, begging silently to change the subject.

"Maybe." Tim said. "We've both been hired on to work at Indiana's club. I'll be running the Roulette Wheel and Ned will be a chef. Actually Mr. Chicago, I was hoping perhaps you could teach me how to play."

Tom nodded. "I can explain a bit about the game right now, if you've got time, and if Ned doesn't mind."

"Not a bit." Ned moved to the kitchen. "I'll put on some coffee."

"Hey," Tom called, folding up his jacket. "Does Indiana know that you two know me?"

"No," Tim took off his hat and hung it on the coat rack. "And I think we'll want to keep it that way. She only hired you on recently, she doesn't entirely trust you yet."

Tom shrugged. "She trusted me enough to let me in on the Bird."

Tim's eyes flicked over to Tom, under low lids. "She didn't tell you where it was hidden. With you delivering the statue for her, she _couldn't_ keep it hidden from you. It's possible she only said what she had to, to ensure you stay quiet for as long as she needs you."

Tom didn't like what Tim was implying.

"I'll keep that in mind." Tom said, flopping onto the couch and putting his sock-less foot on the table.

* * *

Sam Wildman stared down at the screen. "Did, did Tom and Kes…?"

Next to her, Naomi said flatly, "They went up to the bedroom and kissed for a few seconds. Then 'Tommy Chicago' turned down the lights. A minute and a half later the lights came back on, and they were partially undressed, looking perfectly clean and dry." The girl seemed a bit less disturbed than her mother. "From what you and the Doctor told me, it takes a little longer than that for most species."

"Hot 1940s sex," Marina Jor muttered from a nearby console. "Blink and you miss it. Tom did say this program would have an air of camp."

"Well in any case," Sam said, " _They_ think they did it. And so will Neelix. And B'Elanna."

"And this is in addition to all parties competing for the silver sculpture," Vorik noted.

After a moment, Icheb added, "And none of them possesses their usual principals or rational."

"Naomi," Sam asked nervously, "Tom got you into this genre a little bit. Do these noir stories usually contain a lot of violence?"

Naomi's eyes wandered the tiny screen on the console. "…they can."


	5. The Stuff Dreams Are Made of

This was the first time the Doctor could recall attending a meeting with none of the other senior officers present. Most of the people at this table had hardly ever _seen_ the briefing room, in all the years they'd been aboard Voyager. (It would be seven soon, wouldn't it.) If Captain Janeway, Chakotay or Tuvok had any ideas as to which crewmembers should be defaults to senior officers when they were all incapacitated, they hadn't left it written down anywhere. The Doctor and a few officers who worked frequently with the senior staff—like Vorik, Ayala, and Wildman—had clumsily taken over management of the ship, and picked out a few others to fill certain jobs. The Doctor would have felt infinitely more confident that he could hold the ship together if he'd been able to transform himself into the Emergency Command Hologram; unfortunately, he needed Janeway or Chakotay's command codes to do that.

Lt. Miguel Ayala sat at the end of the table. The security officer had been left in charge of the bridge on a few occasions, and was the closest thing the ship now had to a command officer. Ensign Vorik would be representing Engineering; since Carey's death, the young Vulcan had become B'Elanna's second-in-command. Amelia Jenkins, the night shift helmswoman, had been filling in for Tom Paris. Samantha Wildman had been doing a lot of the science departments' work. And Lt. Todd Andrews, one of Tuvok's most trusted security officers, sat in the Vulcan's usual seat.

Clearing his throat, Ayala asked the Doctor, "Update on the senior staff?"

"Still completely unaware of their true identities," the Doctor reported. "But they aren't being directly controlled by any outside force, as far as I can tell."

"So they aren't being controlled by holograms," Ayala asked, "like the time you took control of Seven's body?"

"No. I considered that, but my scans show that they are very much themselves. Only their memories have been altered. They haven't been possessed by aliens again, and Icheb helped me rule out Seven or the Unimatrix Zero team's Borg technology as a possibility."

Jenkins raised a blond eyebrow. "Well no Borg is always good news."

Samantha Wildman timidly corrected the Doctor. "It's a bit more than their memories that have been tampered with. They just aren't all _there_. They don't notice things that a real human in that time period would be shocked by, like Tuvok's ears, or Seven's implants or…Neelix." Sam sighed. "And their sense of time is warped. They've been in that program for a little over thirty hours, but the story has moved them through several days already. The clocks will skip hours, the sky will go from light to dark within seconds. They'll get maybe an hour or two of sleep before it's 'morning' again."

"Like they're literally trapped in an old Hollywood film," Jenkins mused.

Andrews shrugged. "At least they're getting naps in."

The Doctor's concern only increased. "They'll be sleep deprived before long. Their personas are violent enough already; adding sleep deprivation to that certainly won't help."

Faces fell around the table.

"They're eating real food at least, right?" Andrews asked. "So they're not starving?"

Sam nodded. "The holodeck's set on replicator mode."

"Do we know yet, if someone did this to them, deliberately?" Ayala asked, looking between the Doctor and Vorik. "Or is it possible that it was caused by some kind of freak accident?"

"Either is possible," the Doctor admitted. "But given this ship's history with alien intruders and undercover agents, I have a hunch that this was no accident."

"The holodecks are sealed with encrypted codes," Vorik said. "Communication has been blocked both ways. The new identities the staff was given are far from random; they have names and roles similar to those they hold in real life."

"But that could just be coming from their own minds," Samantha pointed out. "Naomi compared it to a dream."

"True," Vorik admitted. "But consider that, of all the possible personae the senior staff could have been given, they all happen to be violent, lonely, and negative personalities. Most of them are criminals; Lieutenants Torres and Paris are separated; Paris is wanted by the law; Kim can't find legitimate work…shall I continue?"

"It's a film noir," Andrews shrugged again. "The genre's supposed to be pretty cynical, isn't it? Maybe that's just the program mixing with their own personal…I don't know."

"I'm no expert on this," Jenkins said. "But what if some sort of, I don't know, radiation, enhanced their negative emotions? Like they're all caught in a waking anxiety dream?"

"It's a good hypothesis," The Doctor admitted. "They all certainly have plenty to be apprehensive about these days. But we haven't detected any radiation. The warp core's offline, so it wouldn't be coming from there."

"Not just the warp core," Sam shifted in her seat. "One of the replicators in the mess hall is down, and over twenty people reported having problems with their own replicators, sonic showers, and lights losing power. Holodeck 2 is completely useless. The power's being diverted to Holodeck 1."

Ayala nodded. "And the locked doors and encrypted codes…it doesn't seem like an accident. We'll have to keep searching 'till we get to the bottom of this. Check ship's records for anything that could indicate an intruder aboard."

Andrews suggested reluctantly, "You and me should also put together a list of suspects on board to question. I can't think of anyone offhand who I don't trust here on Voyager, but it wouldn't be the first time we've had a Cardassian spy or a homicidal psychopath turn up in our crew compliment."

Ayala took no offense. "Agreed."

Jenkins added, "Maybe someone outside the holodeck is being controlled by an alien. Or maybe the holodeck's been taken over by a malfunctioning alien technology, like that warhead that took over your program Doctor."

The Doctor didn't reply. He seemed distracted, staring off into space.

Vorik replied to Jenkins, "We've checked all of the shuttles and Neelix's ship for any alien parasites or malfunctions they may have brought back from recent away missions. Nothing turned up."

"Doctor?" Sam Wildman asked.

The hologram was still staring ahead pensively.

"I just can't shake this feeling we're overlooking something," the Doctor said. "Something right under our noses." He muttered, "It always turns out to be something small and obvious, that we never thought to examine carefully…"

"Looks like we're covering all the obvious stuff," Andrews offered.

"In the meantime," Sam said, "I was thinking perhaps we could try borrowing power from Voyager's shuttlecrafts, and maybe Neelix's ship. I'm sure Neelix would understand."

"A plausible proposal," Vorik said. "But we should leave a number untampered with, in case we should have to abandon ship…"

The Doctor's program was speeding with rapid thought. It was right under his holographic nose, he was sure of it.

* * *

"Hey, Mister!"

Charles' head hurt. His whole body hurt, actually.

"Hey!"

A car horn honked loudly, right in his face.

He bolted up.

Charles was in a dirt road, surrounded by autumn leaves. The sun was low in the sky. He felt like he'd recently rolled down a staircase. Or, more likely, a rocky hill. The road was at the bottom of a steep hill. A couple feet away from him was a hideous Buick the color of stale pea soup. He touched his throbbing head, and looked up at the driver, who was still speaking to him.

"God almighty Pal, I thought you were dead!"

The driver was a young white man, maybe a decade younger than Charles. Charles was sure he knew him, but with the state his head was in, the name just wasn't coming to him. The guy's hair and clothes looked almost as unkempt as his own. He wondered what the driver's excuse was. Charles' black bangs were a mess over his forehead, and his coat was ripped in at least one place. His hat was on the ground nearby.

"I'm fine," Charles said, reaching for his hat.

"Hang on," the younger man shifted his car into parking mode.

The guy threw the car door opened at the exact moment that Charles decided to sit up. It slammed right into his tattoo, and knocked him back to the ground.

"Oops." The driver was out of his car and leaning over Charles in seconds. "Sorry 'bout that. Were you mugged, buddy?"

Charles didn't see the guy's face, because his eyes were currently squinted shut, as he pressed a palm to his throbbing facial art. But he could smell the guy's whiskey breath. Rather than answer the moron's question, Charles replied irritably, "Have you been drinking?"

"Aw gee, you were mugged weren't ya." The guy's voice sounded familiar, but Charles couldn't place it. "They took everything?"

"Probably." Had Seraphine robbed him, come to think of it? Possibly. Charles felt his pocket, and was relieved to feel the familiar lump of his wallet. "Actually, it looks like they left my—"

His eyes flew opened as he felt his wallet slip out of his pocket. Charles' fist came up and sent the pickpocket backwards into the car. Scooping his wallet off the ground, Charles stared down at the thief. As soon as he saw the guy's face, he remembered where he knew him.

"Tom Marseilles," Charles sighed, dropping his wallet back into his pocket. "I might've known."

"Chalres, old shoe!" Tommy grinned, holding his bleeding nose. "How long's it been?"

"Not long enough. What the hell are you doing in California?"

"Uh, I live here?"

"Since when?" Charles placed a hand on his hip. "I thought after they started investigating why you wanted to switch from the Air Force to the Army so badly, you took off for—"

"Oh had to bring _that_ up, didn't we." Tom's blue eyes moved to the cut through Charles' tattoo. "You know, honestly, it looks better that way."

Charles punched Tommy again.

"Thanks for all your concern Marseille, but I'm fine." Charles put on his hat and turned down the road. "No thanks to you."

* * *

Naomi gaped at the image on the screen. "W-wait so, so does Chakotay know that Tom is Billie's baby's father?"

Sam was now at the warp core, helping Crewman Gilmore, but she and Marla looked up at Naomi's exclamation.

Icheb gave his head the tiniest of shakes. "If he did, I'm sure he would have talked a bit longer."

The warp core was still dead behind them, the engine room sparsely populated. While the default senior staff worked endlessly to get to the bottom of the holodeck malfunction, Icheb and Naomi had been tasked with keeping tabs on the people in the holodeck when no one else was able. Naomi's sense of fun had seemed to be steadily declining ever since Seska had killed her driver in front of Chakotay.

"They're right in the same city!" Naomi exclaimed. "Billie never mentioned her fiancé's name to her friend?" She looked back at Icheb. "Charles never mentioned this old war buddies to Billie?"

Sam replied, "I believe the term for that is 'dramatic irony.'"

Gilmore added, "Or a convoluted screenplay." Turning to Vorik, she said, "I finished the diagnostic of the warp core. Even if we had one of the commanding officer's command codes, they wouldn't work; power's been rerouted under 'authorization' of 'Starfleet Command,' which I'm guessing is B.S. for 'a malfunction or hacker within the ship.'"

"You likely guess correctly." Vorik said reluctantly, taking the PADD. "You are relieved, Crewman. Give my regards to your daughter."

Gilmore nodded, and headed out of the engine room.

Samantha wondered how often the senior staff thought about people like Marla Gilmore and her adopted Borg baby, or herself and Naomi, or the rest of the hundred-and-forty people they were tasked with protecting on a regular basis. She wondered if whoever was responsible for this mess—and she was certain someone was responsible, no fluke or malfunction—was thinking about that.

* * *

"You need to get some sleep Nathaniel," Kaaren pleaded.

On the sofa, Ned waved a hand at his wife. "I'm fine, Dearest. Put on another pot of coffee, will you?"

Tim looked at Ned over his glasses. "I would say you've had enough Mr. Felix."

They had been awake the entire night. Tom had taught Tim the basics of Roulette, before leaving to go run some errands for Indiana. Tim and Ned had then stayed up planning their next move, to get closer to the Bird. Kaaren had come down at around four in the morning, in a pale purple robe, saying she hadn't slept a wink and wanted to start on an elaborate breakfast. She'd made sausage, eggs, and French toast, while her husband and Tim discussed their plans, occasionally asking questions and offering suggestions.

Tim and Ned were on the couch now, plotting what they'd do at the café tonight, while Kaaren finished cleaning up the kitchen.

"A short nap won't hurt you," Kaaren suggested, stepping into the living room. "Give you a clear head to—"

"I'm fine!" Ned shouted, startling them both. "Sorry. I just…want to get back to our case."

Kaaren shrugged. "I'll go to the café with you. I can keep people distracted, maybe get some information,"

" _No!_ Kaaren, you can't imagine the kind of people who work there! You do not belong, mixing with my, with my…" Ned's face was contorted painfully. He covered it with one hand.

Tim shot up from the sofa. "Mr. Felix?"

This was a side of his partner he'd never seen. Granted, he'd only known Felix for a few days. But it was still concerning.

" _Fine_ ," Ned said in a strained voice. " _I'm fine…just…medicine. Medicine, Kaaren_."

Kaaren nodded, in a way that looked reluctant. "I'll, I'll get it."

Tim cocked his head curiously, as Kaaren headed into the kitchen. She wasn't rushing. She looked like she was used to this happening all the time. When she opened the cabinet, Tim caught sight of a syringe needle, before she suddenly brought the cupboard partially closed again.

He recalled the injection marks he'd seen on his partner's arms the other day.

"Would, would you like more coffee Mr. Excelsior?" Kaaren offered.

Tim took the hint. "I'm fine, thank you." He sat back down, and picked a newspaper up from the coffee table.

Medicine. Medicine indeed.

* * *

This was not Charles' week.

Of course he was used to having run-ins with Seraphine, but that had been the first time since the War he'd actually seen her kill someone. And this within the same few days as Billie blackmailing him, and bumping into Tom Marseilles (or his car door anyway). A paranoid thought struck Charles, and he wondered if Marseilles might be working with Seraphine. But no, he recalled, the two had never interacted, as far as he knew. But that didn't mean they weren't in cahoots now… If Charles knew Tom Marseilles, he was a self-serving, two-faced crook who couldn't be trusted with a burnt out match.

Rapping, on the passenger seat's window.

He blinked out of his trance, and turned to the passenger seat's window. Billie was standing there, her red trench coat unbuttoned, holding her little feathered hat to her head. He unlocked the car.

"You look like hell Chuck," she said climbing into the seat next to him. "How many rounds did you go last night?"

"Too many." He shifted the car into gear. "They're on the radio, if you ever feel like listening."

"Only if I'm angry with you."

Despite her friendly banter, he had a feeling she wasn't completely joking. Billie had a temper.

"You look like you haven't changed your clothes since yesterday." Her eyes moved up and down his dirty gray suit. "You haven't been up all night have you?"

"No I…I grabbed a few hours of sleep."

He almost told her about his little reunion with Marseilles, but stopped himself. Telling her about that morning would lead her to ask how he'd wound up unconscious on the road. He was going to heed Seraphine's warning, and keep the Nazi bitch's involvement a secret from Billie. Besides, complaining to Billie about his cowardly war buddy might remind her of the cowardly bastard who'd left her pregnant. Sometimes, Charles thought, if he only knew the man's name, he'd track the guy down and punch _him_ in the nose. But he was far too polite to ever ask Billie any questions about her unfortunate predicament. He hadn't even asked her if she was hoping for a boy or girl. For all he knew she was planning to put the child up for adoption.

"So this school friend of yours," Charles said. "Will she be there when we go to meet Kazon?"

"No. She has Saturdays off. And she," Billie's eyes moved around the urban scenery out the windows. "She asked me not to mention her to anyone. Just in case this doesn't end diplomatically. She and Mickey Kazon are, well…"

"…I see."

So, Billie's school friend was Mickey Kazon's moll. Given Billie's fiery personality, Charles' shouldn't have been surprised that her circle of female friends would include a gangster's mistress. This really was his week for meeting "interesting" people. Hot-headed women in particular. First his own secretary (bless her) blackmailing him; then Seraphine; and now some gangster and his girl.

Something felt wrong, as they were driving down the palm tree-lined road, past the mansions and beach scenery. Somehow, it seemed too quiet.

When they finally reached Mickey Kazon's house, they saw why. Police cars and cops were everywhere. An elderly man who looked like a butler was sitting on the mansion's porch, speaking with a police officer, who was taking notes. The two front doors were opened, and cops moved in and out of the house.

Charles muttered, "Coppers."

Billie scanned the scene. "Great."

Just what Charles and Billie needed now.

 _What? No, officer, I haven't been taking bribes from Italian gangsters to lose at my boxing matches…What? Trespassing? Stealing classified documents? Plotting to possibly steal a priceless artifact? Uh no, no idea what you're talking about…_

"Let's get out of here," Billie whispered.

"What've _you_ got to hide?" Charles asked curiously.

"I just don't think we should be—"

Too late. One of the cops was walking towards them, motioning for them to please exit the car. Charles and Billie exited the vehicle, doing their best to keep calm. As the tall red-haired officer approached, they both began to relax a little. Charles couldn't remember the man's name, but he was a neighborhood cop one saw around from time to time, someone he and Billie were both comfortable around. The policeman seemed to vaguely recognize them too.

"Officer Carey," the policeman introduced himself. "Mind if I ask you two a couple questions?"

They shook their heads, and Billie mouthed _no_.

"You friends of Mr. Kazon?"

They both shook their heads.

"No," Billie's winded voice hid the gaps in her story, as she paused to decide how much to reveal. "We…had an appointment to meet with him. I was going to, possibly, buy an artifact from him."

The officer whipped out a notepad. "May I ask what exactly you were looking to buy from Mr. Kazon?"

Charles jumped in. "We didn't exactly get a chance to look yet."

"Ah." The cop nodded, taking speedy notes. "Well you probably won't be contacted again, but just for the record, can I have your names?"

"Charles Liberty."

"Wilhelmina Torres."

The cop looked up. "Torres?"

"Yes," Billie repeated nervously. "Torres."

The cop changed his posture. "Any relation to a John Torres?"

Softly, Billie said, "That's my father's name."

The cop looked like he had bad news to deliver.

Charles asked so Billie wouldn't have to. "Is someone dead?"

" _Very_ dead." The cop said soberly. "Kazon was murdered this morning 'round three. Neighbors called the cops, reporting gunshots. Found him dead in his pool. 'Parently he'd been arguing with Mr. Torres over one of his artifacts the previous day, and Torres made a few threats. He's down at the county jail now, if you wanna talk to him."

Billie blinked. "Thanks."

Hesitantly, Officer Carey offered, "He's not the only suspect, if it's any consolation. We're looking for another man, 'bout five foot nothing, gray hair, black eyes. Last seen wearing a long coat and scarf. He was in Torres' company earlier last night. Either of you seen him? Sound like anyone your old man hangs out with?"

"I haven't spoken to my father in over a decade," Billie said.

Officer Carey looked like he'd regretted bringing it up.

Charles glanced down at his secretary. Her calm responses were frightening him. He knew Billie. She was letting this rage simmer on the burner, saving it for her father when she caught up with him.

"Officer," Billie wrapped her opened coat around her, "Was anyone else killed, besides Mr. Kazon?"

Charles suddenly remembered Billie's anonymous friend, Kazon's mistress.

"No," the cop assured her. "No one else was home, except a butler who witnessed a bit."

Billie nodded, swallowing.

"I might have a few more questions for you, Mrs.—Miss—" the cop looked at Billie's stomach, and his face froze with confusion.

"Miss Torres." Billie looked down, and repeated, "John Torres is my father."

The cop shifted awkwardly. "Miss Torres. Sorry." He suddenly glanced at Charles, whom he'd probably assumed at the start to be Billie's husband.

"Professor Liberty's a friend," Billie added quickly. "He's been taking care of me since my fiancé left me flat."

The cop's expression softened, and he smiled at Charles. "That's very white of you, Mr. Liberty." His eyes bulged, as he realized he'd blundered again. "I'm sorry Sir—it's been a long day." He added irritably. "And night."

"Understandable." Charles almost added something about being in the same boat, before remembering that last night was his and Seraphine's little secret.

"We don't need anything more from you Mr. Liberty. But you can stay if you'd like." Officer Carey turned to Billie. "Miss Torres, I'm sure you had nothing to do with any of this. But because you're a relative of the suspect, I have to ask you a few more questions."

She nodded compliantly. "You don't have to stay Charles. You've probably got a mountain of paperwork at home."

Charles took the hint, and left Billie with the cop.

Trying to sneak into the mansion to look for the Bird would be ludicrous now that it was swarming with cops. But maybe, Charles thought, he could pick up some useful information by hanging around. Sticking his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, he walked at a slow pace, just close enough to the majority of police officers to hear bits of their conversations.

He paused when he overheard someone mention a "metal statue, shaped like a bird."

Charles stopped at the end of Mickey Kazon's driveway and listened, while two officers nearby spoke over their coffee and doughnuts.

"…yeah, one o' my 'anonymous tips' says that's what the shootout down by the bridge was over..." The cop said something indiscernible, but then Charles heard a name: "Kitty Indiana."

"That broad who runs the Queen's Cabin?"

"One and only. Of course we never can pin anything on her. Longest we've ever been able to keep her in jail's a week."

"Hey," the other cop snapped his fingers. "That singer, that bombshell who's at that club almost every night, I saw her down by Sandrine's just a few minutes ago."

"Go find her, see if you can't get anything out of her."

Charles watched the cop hop into his car and take off, at a casual speed. Charles knew where Sandrine's was, and chose to take a shortcut through the park. The cops appeared to be all over the neighborhood, questioning people on the streets, even on the playground. The park eventually merged into a cemetery that lay across the street from the restaurant, where Charles stopped. There were at least two cop cars in the area, and multiple people being questioned. Charles searched for the man he'd been following, and realized to his dismay that he'd completely forgotten what he looked like.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Charles glanced around the small graveyard. Most everyone being questioned seemed as compliant as Billie. Most were also a lot more ordinary looking than Billie—no unusual facial features like her ridges—which was probably why Charles found himself stopping when he noticed one woman who wasn't.

Granted, most men would've been staring at this young woman anyway. Even covered in an earthy brown coat and hat, her Hollywood-quality beauty was impossible to hide. But that wasn't the only thing turning heads. The woman had a very strange dark blotch around her eye, and something was seriously wrong with her hand. But her disfigurements seemed the least of her worries, as she apparently argued with the policeman interrogating her.

Charles altered course, and steered closer to the woman. She and the cop stood on the sidewalk at the edge of the cemetery. She wasn't being openly defiant, but it was clear that she was working very hard to conceal her frustration.

"Ma'am, a driver's license or an ID card. That's all I'm asking for."

"I left them at home," she insisted.

Her voice wasn't the sort one might expect to be coupled with her looks, being neither soft and dollish nor fluid and sultry. It was as sharp and no-nonsense as her wardrobe, creating a striking contrast with her luxurious golden hair and beautiful face. Maybe Charles was just being bitter, but it seemed a rarity to find a young woman with such a direct, honest personality. Billie was the only other one he could think of.

"Left them at home," the cop repeated. "You don't keep them in that nice uh, European purse?"

Charles knew nothing about this woman, but he was now positive he knew why she didn't have identification to show the cop. And being Charles, it was impossible for him not to intervene.

"Cosset!" Charles called out, jogging towards her.

The woman stared at Charles with an unreadable expression as he threw his arm around her. "It's alright…dear," he'd already forgotten the name he'd made up for her. "We don't have to fear the coppers." Turning to the policeman he said, "My fiancé's not an American citizen _yet_. We've been trying to keep our marriage low-profile, for obvious reasons."

Looking between them, the cop laughed. "Interracial marriage ain't against the law! Not up here at least."

"Well 'the law' isn't always as nice in some countries," Charles said. "We met when I was serving in the War."

It took a moment for the cop to understand what Charles was trying to imply, and when he did his eyes flared. "My god! Miss I didn't mean to frighten you."

The woman's good eyebrow rose sarcastically, and she glanced silently up at Charles.

Misreading her gesture, the cop relied dryly, "I'm not a mind-reader you know."

"It's alright," Charles said quickly. "Hope you catch the guy who did it."

"Hmm? Oh, the guy who wacked Mickey Kazon? I hope we find him too. Us cops don't know how to thank him."

Charles laughed politely, and steered the woman away.

When they were safely out of earshot from the policeman, the woman's pale eyes locked with Charles.' He found himself trying to decide if they were blue or gray. He waited for her beautiful, strange, stone face to melt into affectionate thanks. But instead, she simply demanded, " _Cosset_?"

 _Cosset? ..._ Oh, yeah. "Is that what I called you?"

She wormed out of his arm. "I have a subway to catch."

Charles could only stare in disbelief. "It's usually polite to say 'thank you' when a stranger gets you out of trouble."

"Thank you," she said, without looking back.

Charles wondered what he could possibly have done to offend her, and then he remembered the obvious. "I won't scalp you, you know."

That made her stop, and look back at him. Her eyes wandered his face. Probably trying to make out his tattoo under his hat. He approached her, more slowly this time. When they were facing each other, he decided to shake his hat out, giving her a clear view of his facial art.

"That's an…interesting design," she complimented timidly.

"Thanks."

"What tribe are you?" she asked, as they made their way through the cemetery.

"Akoona."

"I've never heard of that one."

"Most people haven't."

Her lips parted, perhaps to thank him before remembering she already had. "I've been in this country long enough to see how non-whites are treated, so I found your empathy somewhat surprising. Was it because I was so stunningly beautiful, or because you pitied me for my disfigurement?" She unconsciously flexed her metallic hand over her purse.

Honestly, Charles answered, "Both. Neither. It's just a natural reaction for me. What about you, why were you so upset with me touching you, if you don't have a problem with color contrast?"

Almost meeting his eye, she replied, "Natural reaction for me."

He thought it over. "What you must've been through, over there, during the..." he stopped, when she met his eyes with an unreadable, blank expression.

Was she angry with him for bringing it up? She'd have a right to be, he realized. It was obvious what her story was. A girl from Europe, with no legal documents, frightened of the law and of strangers... Maybe she was a Jew, or maybe the Nazis had targeted her for her strange skin disease, or maybe someone in her family had been a "political enemy," or maybe she was just from one of the many countries where the Nazis terrorized everyone. What did it matter, come to think of it?

Changing the subject, Charles said, "Mind if I walk you to the subway station?"

The way her eyes traveled him, it was clear she didn't mind. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

"I don't mind a reasonable amoun…" he cut the Bogart quote short at the dry look on her face. "Sorry, couldn't resist."

They walked past the tombstones and crypts in silence for some time. Cemeteries could be oddly peaceful, in the daytime at least.

"So do I get your name," Charles asked, "or should I just keep calling you Cosset?"

After a few moments, she finally replied, "Annie Hanson."

"Charles Liberty."

* * *

Billie's short heels clopped loudly against the tiled floor of the jailhouse. She strode past the cells, staring straight ahead. One prisoner lifted his tattered hat and greeted, "Morning ma'am." Others jeered, "Hey sugar, how 'bout a kiss!" and "What'cho so worried about Sweetheart? You're wrinkling your brow!" Another pointed at her belly and shouted, "That one mine?" Billie ignored them. She continued down the hall, dodging a chunk of mashed potato that flew from one cell.

Her father stood up as she approached, staring at her with his mouth hanging opened like a codfish. If she hadn't known better, she'd think he'd have been surprised to see her. He looked slightly worse than she remembered him from her childhood, unshaven and in wrinkled dirty clothes. He wore the same battered cap he'd had back in the Depression. His dark hair had some new flecks of gray in it, and his worn coat had some new patches.

"Billie?" her father stuck his head through the bars. "What are you doing h—"

She slapped him so hard that his head clobbered against one of the bars.


	6. The Face Behind the Mask

John Torres' mouth fell opened, and he rubbed his face where Billie had slapped him.

"You son of a bitch!" Billie's voice echoed through the jailhouse, drawing the attention of guard and inmates. "Are there no depths you won't sink to?"

John gripped the bars. "Billie, Princess, it wasn't me."

" _It wasn't you_. Wasn't you who what, killed Mickey Kazon? Or who walked out on us and took all the money, all the valuables, down to the last silver spoon? Oh don't worry, the soup kitchens provided silverware, usually."

"I was gonna come back!" John stammered.

Billie laughed bitterly. " _Right_! You were gonna come back. You were in such a hurry to get out and get back, you forgot to leave a note."

"I thought I was gonna make a big break, I was gonna find work in New York and get rich, and prove to your mother that I wasn't such a useless husb—"

"But you couldn't take us with you? We'd just slow you down?" Billie snorted. " _You were gonna come back_. Sure took you a while."

John looked down, and his face suddenly brightened. "Oh Billie! You're, you're expecting!"

She slapped him again, if possible, harder.

"I wanted that Bird for my baby! Your grandchild! What did you want it for again, to prove to Mama that you weren't a worthless husband? Was that worth murdering a man in his home for, Daddy?"

"I told you I didn't do it! I never even saw Kazon more than once!"

"I know. He was shot in the back." She flexed her fists opened and closed. "Three times."

John's mouth quivered opened and closed. "I-I-I don't even have a gun!"

"That's not what an entire bar full of people heard you telling Kazon the day before, when you were arguing with him over that statue."

"Aw, I was, I was drunk, I was out of my mind—"

"When you killed him?"

" _I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE_!" his voice softened. "B-Billie, we can start again. I wanna see my grandchild. I can't make up for what I did to you but, but maybe I can make it up to him. Or her."

"How can I believe anything you say Daddy." She let a couple tears fall. "You lost my trust when I was ten years old."

"Give me a chance to earn it back. Please."

Billie sniffled. Was he offering to help support her and her baby?

"We can be a family again," her father urged. "If, if you just tell them…tell the police how I came here to see you, how I was with you last night, while Mickey Kazon was being killed…"

Her father's distressed face blurred behind her tearing eyes, and Billie turned away with disgust. Time to get out of here before she did something that would get _her_ arrested.

She stormed out the building, wondering why the hell she'd come in the first place.

* * *

Tim was listening to the morning news on the radio, while Kaaren washed dishes in silence. Ned was finally "asleep," courtesy his "medicine." Tim's pointed ears perked when the newsman began reporting the murder of a local suspected gangster.

" _One suspect is already behind bars. John Torres, age 49, allegedly had an argument with Kazon the night before, and threatened to kill him…"_

Kaaren asked half-jokingly, "Why aren't you and Ned out solving the important crimes, like that one?"

"The important ones don't pay half as much," Tim smiled over his coffee.

"… _the second suspect remains at large and unnamed. He is described as having a small stature, gray hair and large black eyes. One witness said that the man was at the bar with Kazon, along with Torres, but did not interact with Torres. The witness described the man as 'staring at Kazon, like he hated him,' and left the bar only minutes after Kazon left. Anyone who sees this man is urged to contact the police_ …"

Tim froze.

Without even turning around, Karren seemed to somehow sense the change in Tim. "Someone you know?" she asked, drying a plate.

Tim's eyes darted rapidity behind his glasses. "Possibly."

* * *

After walking Annie Hanson to the subway, Charles returned to his office.

Billie had the day off work, and Charles decided to let her have the day off the Bird Hunt too. The poor woman needed time to recuperate, after that fiasco with her father. Charles hoped to god John Torres had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and wasn't actually involved in this mess of murder.

He decided to focus on the new lead Seraphine had given him, Timothy Excelsior.

At first, Charles had no idea how he was going to track down a man he'd never met, in a city as big as San Francisco. But rereading the news clipping, he realized he had several advantages. First off, the guy's weird ears and eyebrows. Charles hadn't seen such features on anyone in his life, and assumed they'd stand out in a crowd. On top of that, the guy was from New York. That meant there was a good chance that he was only here in San Francisco temporarily, and might've been spotted at one of the subway stations. On the other hand, that news clipping was a couple years old, so maybe Timothy Excelsior had been living in California for a while. Even if he was only visiting, there was no reason to assume he'd come directly to California through San Francisco.

Charles returned to his office and made a few phone calls. He phoned all of the major train stations in the city, pretending to be a concerned friend, asking if someone of Tim Excelsior's name or description had been there. Finally he got a lead, saying that Excelsior had stepped off the train a couple of days ago, in the company of a white friend-the term "white" being used a bit loosely here. According to the girl on the other line, Excelsior's friend had spots like a giraffe's, and hair like a rooster's. "I didn't wanna ask, since I figured he might've been leper," she said in a hushed voice. She'd described the car they'd left in, and the direction in which they'd gone.

Following a hunch that Giraffe Man and Excelsior were working together, Charles decided to ask the hotels he phoned for both men. But he didn't get anywhere. They might've been staying at a friend's house, rather than a hotel. A little after noon, he was starting to consider giving up. He hadn't eaten, and hadn't changed since the night before. A few more phone calls, then he'd call it a quits for today.

Shrugging out of his filthy suit jacket, he flipped the phone book back opened, found another hotel, and called them up.

"Thank you for calling Prancing Pony Hotel, name's Pip, how can I help you?"

Charles didn't bother feigning concern, instead letting his genuine fatigue do the "acting" for him. "Hello. Listen Pip, I'm trying to locate a friend. He was supposed to meet me in San Francisco yesterday, never showed. Timothy Excelsior?"

The boy searched the records, and came up with nothing. "…Is it possible he checked in under a different name?"

"It's possible, though I've no idea which name he'd use. He's got uh," Charles rubbed his temple. He was so sick of repeating this ludicrous story. "Excuse me son, I'm not drunk. But my friend has pointed ears, and unusual eyebrows…"

"Uuuuh, if he was here, he had those ears hidden. I didn't see nothing like that."

Charles looked down, putting a hand on his hip. "He might not've been alone. He…might be with another man, a white fellow with…" he sighed. "…spots on his face?"

The boy's voice changed. "Brown spots? And big blond mutton chops?"

Charles almost dropped the phone. "You've seen him?"

"Yeah, just this morning. 'Round ten. He was walking down the street."

"Which way were they going?"

"West, I think. Went past the bank, 'that helps…"

After getting some more details, Charles ran home to shower and change into some clean clothes. He shook out his wrinkled trench coat as well as he could, and threw it back on, then hopped into his car and headed down to downtown, to the street outside Prancing Pony Hotel. He parked the car at a meter, and spent a while asking around different shops, for anyone who'd seen his "friend."

Charles found that when he was asking in person, the responses were far less friendly. People seemed hesitant to tell him anything, and gave him odd looks. He soon realized how suspicious he must seem, in a wrinkled coat, and an odd tattoo under visible fighting injuries. His appearance probably screamed "gangster." The fact that he was asking around for a white man and a Negro, while he himself was neither, probably made his story of being a concerned friend seem even less likely. By the time Charles reached a little saloon called Sullivan's, he had come up with a new story that he hoped would cover his suspicious appearance.

"Hi there. I'm looking for an old friend." Charles dropped his voice into a whisper. "On behalf of a suspicious wife."

The portly Irish bartender's expression changed, and he immediately became more sympathetic. Leaning over the counter, the man whispered, "You're some kind of hired detective?"

"When I can _get_ hired. Work's been slow, as you can probably tell." He gestured to his wrinkled coat. "I pull in extra dough in the ring on weekends. Took quite a beating last night."

"Ah!" the old man leaned back, looking at Charles' injuries in a new light. "Course, course. Times been tough all around, ain't they." He dropped back into a whisper. "So the fellow you're looking for, what's he look like? What's his mistress look like?"

"The fellow's Colored. Tall, long face, little mustache like Clark Gabel had in 'Gone With the Wind.' Glasses. And his ears are a bit unusual. They're pointed."

The man shook his head. "Most everyone come in here's been wearing hats. What about the girl he's two-timing with?"

Charles looked down, hands in his coat pockets. He looked back up, and whispered, "His wife tells me her husband's been spending a lot of time with a male 'friend.' She's afraid the fellow might be putting 'unnatural thoughts' in her husband's head. Fact that he's an old white guy made her even more depressed—no offense."

The old man's jaw dropped, and he pointed at Charles. "That last one sounds like one of me regulars, Mr. Ned Feelix! He's got some terrible skin disease, Lord help him, he looks like a tropical fish! A finer soul never walked the earth, but he's an odd one, Mr. Felix. Frightens a few of the customers now and then, ones who aren't regulars." Charles was nodding, doing his best to be patient. "Oh! Anyway, he was hear earlier, with a man who looked like Dracula's darker cousin, talking like best buddies."

"I feel like John Wayne now, but: which way did they go?"

The man pointed. "I think they said something about Leola's. That's a diner a few blocks down, it's right next to Maggie's Produce…"

* * *

Tim and Ned's first shift at the Queen's Cabin would not start until that evening. In the meantime, they decided to observe the club from across the street. Posing as fund raisers for a charity, they talked the owner of a tiny diner called Leola's into letting them set up an early Christmas display. The owner eagerly agreed, knowing that they would attract many passing families to his restaurant.

Ned sat in a little chair by a large window, waving to passersby. Dressed in a full Santa suit and beard, he was easily the strangest Chris Cringle anyone in on the street had ever seen. Never mind the fact that November was still finishing up, and there was hardly any snow on the ground. Tim stood in a green tunic and boots, with a thick red belt and candy cane patterned stockings. He wore a long green hat that ended in a pompom, his pointed ears on full display. Tim waved his charity bell back and forth, gazing over the confused pedestrians, watching the club across the street.

"Tim!" Ned hissed. "Smile once in a while, won't you? You're frightening the children."

" _I_ …am frightening the children?"

Outside the window, a little girl with curly blond pigtails stared at Ned like a deer in the headlights. She was soon joined by her older brother, who stared at "Santa" with snobbish bemusement, adjusting imaginary cuff-links on his sleeve.

Tim's gaze moved passed the perplexed children and onto the street.

"What on Earth are you looking for Tim?" Ned whispered beneath the Santa beard.

"I've told you," Tim said quietly. "Jon Gardener. The psychotic murder I failed to catch two years ago. The suspect the newsman described fleeing the scene of Mickey Kazon's murder was him, I'm certain of it."

"Or just another hobo with bug-eyes! Your Jon Gardener can't be the only man in America who fits that—Oh!" Ned exclaimed happily, when an Asian woman entered the shop with her enthused son. "Ho, ho, ho! Meeerry early Christmas!"

Outside, the father of the two mesmerized children finally caught up to them, and scolded in an English accent, "Henry, Beatrice, there you are! Don't just stand there kids, Santa can't read minds. Go on in and tell him what you want for Christmas!"

As the family entered the diner, Tim returned to searching the street, still ringing his bell slowly. A melting pot of families had been stopping by to see "Santa" and his "elf." The bigger the crowd, the better; it would make him and Ned seem less suspicious to anyone from Kitty's club who might notice them across the street.

* * *

"Now what's this here?" Kitty Indiana muttered, peering out her diner's window with folded arms.

Her new roulette runner and chef were across the street, doing some kind of early Christmas display for the kids. Sweet of them, but a little too conspicuous. Kitty wasn't certain how comfortable she was with two of her workers drawing so much attention to themselves, right outside her club.

"Those two men," Annie Henson came up behind Kitty. "I told you, Kitty, what Harry said. Those two are watching us."

"And well they should be," Kitty admitted. "They know this is a dangerous place to work, and that gambling isn't legal in California. They might just be doing a background check on their new host before committing to a job that might get them killed." Her voice dropped to a lower, more cynical note. "On the other hand, they might be cops, doing a sting on us."

"They might also be friends of Mickey Kazon. Have you turned on the news today, Kitty?"

Kitty turned to look at her friend. Annie's blue eyes were hard and unblinking.

"Yes. I did." Kitty turned back to the window. "But Kazon was killed around three this morning, they said. These two were hired long before that. They weren't here for revenge."

"But they may be now."

Kitty turned back to her singer. Annie was in casual daytime clothes. Well, "casual" for Annie; the singer was always a tad overdressed. She wore a plain white blouse with a long black skirt, a bright red sash tied around her waist. A chunk of her gold hair was rolled over her forehead, the rest sitting around her shoulders. She looked like she wouldn't need to change to go out for a little errand.

"Tell you what Annie," Kitty said softly. "How would you like to pick up a few extra hours before your shift tonight, and do a little detective work for me?"

Annie raised her good eyebrow. "Perhaps I could use a cup of coffee before I sing tonight."

* * *

Annie mentally planned out what she'd do in the diner, as she fetched her earthy-brown coat and matching women's fedora. She knew that Mr. Excelsior and Mr. Felix had seen her and Indiana watching them. Rather than try to deny it, she decided to work it into her story.

When she stepped into Leola's, she smiled at the two men. "Mr. Excelsior, Mr. Felix. Nice costumes!"

Felix waved to her, and Excelsior nodded with a small smile. The child on Felix's lap stared up at him, perplexed by his spots.

"Miss Indiana says she wants a limousine for Christmas." Annie joked, getting in line at the counter.

"I'll see what I can do!"

While waiting in line, Annie observed her two new coworkers for any suspicious activity. Felix seemed to be genuine in his mission as Santa Claus, but his friend Excelsior was eying the street outside, as if watching or waiting for someone.

Felix turned back to the child on his lap. "Now, what do you want for Christmas little boy?"

"G'won Henry," the boy's father encouraged. "Tell Santa what you want!"

The boy quietly requested a Latin book, "and a competent instructor to go with it, for once," before surrendering Santa's lap to his sister. "He's all yours, Beatrice," the boy said, sliding off Santa's lap and prudishly straightening his plaid cap.

The father placed the girl on Felix's lap. She took one look at "Santa" and screamed bloody murder. Over her long scream, her father commented that his daughter was fond of Mozart. Ned "ho, ho ho"-ed and promised her a few records, then accepted the next child waiting in line.

Annie realized she'd made it to the front of her own line, and ordered coffee and a bagel from the red-haired waitress. As she did, the doorbell jingled again, granting entry to a new hand full of customers: a Colored woman with two children, coming to see Santa, and a dark familiar man in a battered coat. He politely held the door for the woman and kids, before strolling over to the counter. He dipped his hat to Annie.

"On break?" Charles Liberty asked her.

The softness of his voice was as striking now as it had been when they'd met that morning. Maybe it was his large build, or the down-on-his-luck attire she'd been too polite to comment on thus far, but that voice always seemed to surprise her. In any case, it took effort not to be visibly affected when he spoke.

"Yes," Annie said. "You?"

"I don't work Saturdays."

She replied with a tiny nod.

Charles seemed to be looking at Excelsior and Felix, while trying not to look like he was looking. This shouldn't have seemed odd; half the other people in the restaurant were doing the same thing. No one had ever seen such a strange looking Santa, or an "elf" with such convincingly pointed ears. But something about Charles Liberty sent up red flags. He obviously wasn't here by coincidence; but was his reason a simple attraction to Annie, or did he have ulterior motives? The fact that she'd met him at a murder scene was probably one reason she was so uncertain of him.

Annie's coffee and bagel arrived. She thanked the red haired waitress, and took a seat at one of the chrome-framed stools lining the counter. Not surprisingly, Charles slid into the seat next to her.

"Mind if I join you?"

She shook her head. "Please."

He pulled out the chair across from her, and set his hat down on the counter. His hair was an unconvincing shade of jet black, parted at the side, with streaks of natural silver running along the sides. His eyes were so dark brown, you couldn't see where the irises ended and the pupils began. They were deep set, under angular silver eyebrows, that made Annie think of a wolf.

"Unusual looking Santa," Charles said, glancing back at Ned Felix.

Annie nodded. "Very convincing ears, on that elf."

Charles nodded, sipping some coffee. As he did, she saw his eyes glance, just for a split second, on her ring finger. He didn't have a wedding band either. Her face was growing hot. But this was a good thing. Her blushing would make him think she was only interested in flirting. Maybe even get him to tell her a bit about why he was really here.

"I don't think I've seen you around here often," Annie said, but didn't smile. Flirting or not, she didn't care for the giggling schoolgirl routine.

He shook his head. "You caught me. I thought I might get to know this side of town a bit better, and eventually run into you again. I just didn't think it'd happen so soon." He reached into the pocket of his coat, which he hadn't taken off. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Actually, I do. I'm a singer. If we were outside I wouldn't mind so much, but I'd just as soon not have it blowing in my face."

He took his hand away from his pocket. "I hear it's a filthy habit anyway." His eyes were moving around the metallic disfigurements on her face. He caught himself, and changed the subject. "You a regular at this place?"

God, his voice was really doing things to her. Stirring her coffee, Annie said, "S'pose I am. I sing for Miss Indiana's customers almost every night."

He turned to the restaurant's door and front walls, which were essentially one long window. There he went, looking at Santa and the elf again. With his face at this angle, she was given a full view of that tattoo. Annie found herself pondering what on earth it was supposed to be—a wind pattern? Bird wing? Rainbow?—and ultimately only being able to connect it to a squiggling pattern she'd seen on a dress in a shop as a child, back in the '20s.

Charles made an acknowledging sound, a late response to Annie's last comment, and turned back to sip his coffee. Far too casually, he said, "I heard that Mickey Kazon was a competitor of Kitty Indiana's."

Annie looked up at him dryly. "You're as subtle as that tattoo on your face."

He froze. She waited for an explanation, but none came.

Changing the subject she asked, "What is it anyway?"

If she could get him talking about himself, she'd be free to sit in the diner for a while longer, observing Excelsior and Felix without arousing suspicion. That was what Annie told herself, anyway.

"My tattoo? It's a symbol of our journey."

After a moment, she asked, "To?"

He stared at her.

"You journey to where?"

"Oh! To—" He stopped.

"Charles?"

"Sorry. It's funny, I…I _know_ the story behind it, or I thought I did…"

Annie lifted her coffee. "Well, I don't know how many Christians can name every one of Jesus' disciples. There's no reason you need to know...that."

Charles nodded, but still looked troubled.

"I'm sorry, I must sound very ignorant." Annie apologized. "I don't know much about…well much of the world, come to think of it."

Charles shifted on his stool, looking at her almost inquisitively. "Have you heard of a film called 'Now Voyager?'"

She stared at him. "No..."

The most peculiar sense of déjà vu engulfed her. Why did looking at this man's face, that tattoo, while hearing the word 'voyager,' ring so many bells?

"It's about a woman who's uh, shut away. Lives with her mother. No friends, no job, thinks she's useless and ugly, even though she can carve these elaborate wood boxes and she's Bette god-damned Davis..." Realizing he was rambling, he cleared his throat. "Anyway, uh, good movie." Seemingly remembering why he'd brought it up, he said, "You reminded... I mean, what you said about being socially compromised, it made me think of that film."

"I can be plenty 'sociable,'" Annie said, "I just choose not to unless I absolutely must."

Charles began to smile, almost smugly. "Unless you _must_."

She shifted uncomfortably, then surrendered, offering him a bashful shrug.

It wasn't long before Annie all but forgot about her mission to observe Felix and Excelsior. She became engrossed in talking to Charles, hearing about his failed archeology career, growing up in "Indian country," and his time as a Code Talker. What he lacked in a clever sense of humor and convincing hair dye he seemed to more than compensate for in intelligence and chivalry. He seemed to be everything Annie admired, and everything she knew she'd never be.

"Am I boring you?"

Annie blinked, and realized she'd probably been staring into space, letting her thoughts run away with her.

"Because this isn't me at my most boring," Charles warned. "I'm told my ancient parables could've made powerful torture devices against the Axis Powers."

"I'm sorry," Annie shifted on her stool. "You were right earlier. I'm—my social skills are out of practice."

"That's fine by me," he said, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

She gave him an odd look.

"I've had some bad experiences with women, dishonest ones. So I appreciate one who's direct."

After a moment Annie said, "I've had bad experiences with…people."

His eyes were now stuck on the hand she stirred her coffee with, the one covered it glossy metallic veins.

"Borges' Disease." She said suddenly, apparently startling him. "I was diagnosed when I was six. It's not contagious. Not very pretty either."

"That's a matter of opinion," Charles dark eyes wandered her silver disfigurements. "And I _can't_ be the first person to suggest that, either."

Annie chewed her bagel silently for a moment, then admitted, "You're not." She washed her bagel down with a long sip of coffee before deciding to continue. "Upon reaching America, I considered working in a sideshow for a time." Charles looked taken aback by this, but Annie explained, "Apparently there's a market for ... 'beautiful oddities.' One contractor said I had the potential to join the ranks of Francis O'Connor and Daisy Earles. Offered to bill me as 'the Incredible Mechanical Woman,' a sort of real-life Maria from 'Metropolis.'" Charles looked playfully amused by the idea, shaking his head with a smile as he raised his coffee for another sip. "Trouble was, I simply don't share the extroverted personalities of 'the Living Venus' and 'the Midget Mae West.'"

Charles pondered the subject for a moment. "I think I saw Venus once, actually. She's the woman with no arms, who does everything with her feet, right?" He gave it some more thought. "Its' funny, I always thought people like her—disadvantaged, but then 'beautiful'—got a kind of saving ticket fate. But if you don't like attention, being beautiful must be nothing but salt in the wound."

Annie popped one eyebrow. "It is."

Charles was silent.

She pushed out of her seat. The way he looked at her almost hurt. "I'll be back in a minute," she assured him. "I need to use the washroom."

She hurried away before he could utter some apology.

She told herself she was going to fix her makeup, but upon reaching the bathroom mirror found it flawless. She stood there for several long moments, staring at her reflection. Annie was immodestly aware of her beauty. Not only was her figure flawless and buxom, and her face free of acne or blemishes, she even had the Hollywood ideal of gold hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. She could be a star, if not for…well, a few things. Those marks on her face, those ugly metal blotches, they were truly hideous. She was never certain if men swarmed to her because the rest of her beauty compensated, or because they found her disfigurements "unique" and endearing, or because they felt sorry for her. But even if she'd looked completely normal, she'd never be able to have a serious relationship, even a platonic one, outside of her friendship had with Kitty Indiana. Friendships and dates both had to stop just short of getting to know each others' pasts.

Annie almost jumped, when the stall door behind her opened. An older woman stepped out and strode over to the sink beside hers. After washing her hands, the woman turned to leave. But just as she was opening the door, she stopped, looked back at Annie, and let it fall closed again.

"Anita?" the woman's voice was low and silky. "Anita Heinritz?"

Clunk.

Annie had dropped her little purse. She stood there, numbly, as the woman clopped over to her on spike heels. She picked up Annie's purse and handed it back to her. Annie took it without meeting her eye.

"Anita?" the woman stared at her, with large, dark eyes.

She wasn't any taller than Annie, but she carried herself with an intimidating authority. She was unnaturally pale, with thin silver hair yanked up in a tight, tiny bun. Her large dark eyes were surrounded by almost mockingly dollish makeup, her tiny lips painted bright red. She had no eyebrows, instead having drawn thin curved lines high over her eyes, a style at least ten years out of date. Her long black dress, almost skintight, was spangled with leafy silver designs. She clung to a silver fox skin over one shoulder. Annie knew this woman, knew her better than her own parents in fact. But she refused to be reconnected with her.

Annie shook her head. "You have me mistaken for someone else."

Annie tried to shove past her, but the woman blocked her, grabbing her arm.

"Anita, darling!" the woman purred. "I know it's you, don't try to tell me it's not! It's me, Bruna Rike. You know who I am, I practically raised you."

"Take your hand off me." Annie struggled, but Bruna Rike's grip was inhumanly strong.

"Anita, I love what you've done with your hair!" Bruna cupped some of Annie's gold locks. "You look so _Aryan_."

Almost on reflex, Annie's normal hand clawed Bruna's cheek, with sharp long nails. Bruna released her, and moved her hand to feel the small, bleeding cuts on her cheek.

Seething, Annie warned, "If you know what's good for you Frau Rike, you'll make sure I never see you again."

She shoved Bruna against the sink, and moved to the door. She stopped, when she felt cold metal on the back of her neck.

"Into the stall, Anita. I want to talk."

Annie allowed herself to be guided into the first stall. Bruna pulled the door shut and locked it, and kept her pistol pointed at Annie.

"I don't just know your name, Anita Heinritz." Bruna smiled. "I know your employer, Kathryn O'Hara, better known as Kitty Indiana. I know she hosts illegal gambling in her club's basement, and that she's made quite a name for herself among the criminal underworld of California. I also know that she possesses an almost priceless ancient artifact, a silver statue of a bird. What am I holding this gun for? I don't need bullets to threaten you." Bruna opened her large purse and let the gun fall inside. "You're going to do me a favor Anita, and if you don't I'll come to the police about your past political affiliations, and Kitty's current ones."

"And then I will tell the police who taught those 'affiliations' to me, Nazi." Annie said coldly. "You clearly didn't think your blackmail through very thoroughly, did you."

"Actually I did. You see Annie, you have no proof that I had anything to do with Hitler. But I have plenty of documents from my beloved students in Hitler's Youth. Here's a sample." From her large purse, Bruna pulled a photograph of Annie, in her teens, standing among a group of other young Nazis, proudly sporting their uniforms and swastika armbands, lifting their arms to Hitler. "And something a little more recent…"

Into Annie's shaking hand, she placed a newer looking photo, of the gambling room down in the basement of the Queen's Cabin, with bar patrons laughing and scowling at each other around the roulette wheel.

"Oh," Bruna gasped with mock concern. "I wonder what that Injun thinks of the Nazis. He's about the right age to've served, strikes me as ex military. He probably fought Nazis."

Annie swayed slightly, but kept her face hard. "He probably _killed_ Nazis. Hitler is dead and the War is over. What do you hope to accomplish?"

"Some funds for our efforts." Bruna said. "We're re-patriotizing South America as we speak."

Annie didn't think "re-patriotizing" was a word, but that wasn't relevant at the moment.

"I don't have any money." Annie said.

Bruna looked at Annie's outfit. "Nice wardrobe, for a starving singer. You know what I want, Anita. Get me that Bird. When I have the statue I'll be out of the country, you'll never see or hear from me again. And no one need know anything about what you were doing before 1945, or what kind of a business your friend Kitty runs."

Annie's jaw clenched. "I don't know where Indiana keeps the statue."

"Find out. You have three days." Bruna unlocked the door and gently eased it opened, then stopped. "Oh, and before you get any ideas about telling Miss Indiana about this conversation, consider how well she usually does at keeping a low profile."

Annie thought it over. Indeed, Kitty Indiana—for all her virtues—was terrible at staying undetected. Her two men Tom and Harry had just barely escaped Kazon's men with the statue the other night, after a loud car chase that wound up in the papers. Kitty herself had served several short jail sentences, after getting caught for petty crimes while she carried out her major schemes; and it was thanks to a few bribable, corrupt policemen that Kitty was able to keep her illegal gambling business going. It was Kitty's money and contacts that had kept her out of prison all this time; not her ability to lie low. If Annie told Kitty about this blackmail, no doubt Kitty would insist upon trying to take out Bruna, fumble the plan, and have them both exposed to the (non-corrupt) law in an instant. Annie loved Kitty, but she didn't trust her, not on something like this.

Their eyes stayed locked, as Annie slowly moved out of the stall, then burst out of the women's room.

Charles looked up at her with concern as she clopped back to the counter.

"Is everything alright?"

"No. I'm ill." Annie grabbed her coat from her chair and threw it on, not bothering to button it.

"You still have half your bagel," he pointed out.

"You can have it." She donned her hat and took off, before he could ask anything more.

Only when she was crossing the street did Annie realize that she'd completely neglected to ask Bruna Rike how the hell she knew about the Bird, Kitty's business, and the fact that Charles Liberty was an Indian.


	7. Like Sweet Memories

Kitty Indiana stood at the end of a long wooden dock, watching the sky darken over the Pacific Ocean. It was a chilly evening, but she was plenty warm in her fur-lined coat. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, her mouse-brown curls framed the same lacy red eye-patch, that she'd worn when meeting Tommy Chicago in person. She took out her cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke coil around in the air.

The wood creaked behind her, but she didn't turn around. She kept one gloved hand on the dock's railing, the other fiddling her cigarette.

His low voice still held his subtle Irish accent. "Nice place for a rendezvous, Kitty."

Kitty allowed herself a smile. "I figured you'd like it, Mayhew."

He came up next to her, removing his bowler hat. In all that those years, Mayhew hadn't seemed to age a day. He still looked a bit older than Kitty, with a full head of perfectly kept gray hair. Under his opened coat, she could see he still dressed simply, sporting a white shirt and gray vest. The closest thing to color on him was a dowdy bow tie the hue of dried blood. Mayhew was a simple, down-to-Earth man, and Kitty loved him for it. Loved him for it, and suffered for it.

"The businesswoman's life seems to suit you." Mayhew admitted. "The more I think of it, the harder I have, picturing you quitting your café to settle down on a farm."

"I never did like messing around in the dirt." Kitty admitted. "But I've had my fun, Mayhew. I think I just might be ready to settle down."

"You've been saying that for neigh ten years, Kitty."

Kitty's eyebrows turned up. Almost whispering, she said, "What could I do, Mayhew? If I abandoned that club, all of those boys and girls would've been out of work."

"Lots of people were out of work, Kitty. They made it through."

"No, Mayhew, they didn't. What about your own uncle, who jumped out of a skyscraper when he lost his life's savings, the day after Black Tuesday?" She looked over the darkening ocean. "All those people I collected over the years—crooks trying to go straight, orphans, widows, Colored people—no one else would hire them."

"That's _not_ true."

"They'd have a damn hard time finding as well a paying job, and most of them need the money, bad. And they're good people Mayhew, good workers. A lot of them would be street puppeteers if I didn't stand by them."

"You're heart's too big, Kitty. Seems you've got room for everyone in it but me. Once, long ago, I proposed to you. Now you've kept me waiting for almost a decade. I can't hold out much longer. And neither can Clara."

Kitty blinked, still staring out at the ocean. "The girl back in Ireland."

"Aye." Mayhew looked down, fiddling his bowler hat. "She's getting close on to thirty. She knows about you and me, Kitty. If I chose you, she won't hold any grudges. She wants me to be happy. But, she also wants a husband, before…before mother nature tells her time's up."

Kitty felt his eyes on her.

"Maybe you're willing to wait forever Kitty, but Clara and I, we ain't."

"I've just made a break, Mayhew." Kitty turned to face her former fiancé. "I've gotten a hold of a very valuable artifact. In a few days, I'll be selling it for more money than anyone at my café's made in all the time we've worked there. And then," she waved her cigarette with a smile. "Aidyo, San Francisco!"

Mayhew's face brightened. "You're saying you're finally hanging it all up?"

"I'll have enough money to give each of my best workers enough to be set for at least a few years, until they can make a new start. And there'll be plenty for our farm—if you'll have me."

"Kitty," he put his arms around her. "I really hope you mean it this time."

* * *

The crowd was thinning down at Leola's Diner as late afternoon approached. The cute little radio on the counter was playing a jazz tune, as if the station was making a conscious effort to lull all the businesses in town to a slowdown in the space between the lunch and evening rushes.

Tim Excelsior checked his watch. "It's getting close to five, Mr. Felix. We'd best close up shop." He removed his green elf hat, and dropped his charity bell into it.

Felix was about to take one last child onto his lap, before suddenly pointing out the window. "There he is again!"

The dark man with the tattoo strolled by, lighting up a cigarette.

"He was sitting here eating lunch for over an hour, and he's passed us maybe five times since then!" Ned squinted, as the man walked out of sight.

"Working for Miss Indiana, perhaps?" Tim whispered. "He was speaking with her singer earlier. He arrived around the same time she did, in fact."

"I don't trust him." Felix said.

Tattoo Man was across the street now, taking a seat on a bench. He wasn't looking directly at them, but he was doing that pathetic eye-sweep that people did when they were trying to catch a glimpse of you without looking like they were staring. Tim agreed with Felix; he did not trust this fellow one bit.

"He may be an accomplice of Mr. Gardener," Tim mused, watching the man with the tattoo.

Ned gave him an irritable look.

Just as they were exiting the coffee shop, a voice called called, "Hey, Cris Cringle!"

The boy jogging towards them was almost as unusual looking as Tim and Ned. He had orange tinted skin, a forehead that vaguely resembled a tortoise shell, and hair that looked like a batch of gray mushrooms growing under his newsie cap. Looking relieved to have caught them, the boy rambled at the speed of lightning, "I'm gonna earn a name for myself in this city, but to do that I'll need a weapon. So for Christmas I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!"

Tim and Felix looked at each other, and then back at the newsie.

Not even bothering to revert to his cheerful elf voice, Tim replied, "You'll shoot your eye out kid."

Feelix shrugged in agreement.

As they crossed the street, Felix called over his shoulder to the dumbstruck newsie, "Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!"

While they were crossing the street, their stalker shifted and took another drag from his joint, determinately looking ahead. He was a big guy, but Tim was confident he could take him in a fight—for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on.

They hurried into the café and made for the restroom, to change into their work uniforms. Ned emerged in simple pants and shirt, covered by an apron, and headed for the kitchen. Tim adjusted the top of his iridescent gold suit, and headed downstairs to the basement, where the not-quite-legal gambling took place.

The basement was decorated much like the ground floor, with designs that called back to the speakeasies of the Roaring Twenties. A radio was playing some news updates. It was early yet, and the room looked empty. The gambling room would open up for business in about twenty minutes. As Tim finished descending the stairs, someone in the corner moved, making him jump. It was Tommy Chicago. The driver was sitting in a little chair near a shelf where the little red radio played the news. Chicago was actually dressed halfway decently this time, wearing a red pinstriped suit made from some light, baggy material.

"Tim!" Tom gasped, then laughed. "Damn near gave me a heart attack!"

Tim watched, unmoved, as Tom quickly stashed a half-empty bottle of whiskey inside his large suit. "My apologies Mr. Chicago. I didn't realize anyone was down here yet."

Tom shook his head. "It's fine. So, Ned's got the kitchen, you have the roulette room, and I'll take the main floor."

Tim nodded. "Don't make it look obvious that you're looking for information on the Bird."

"Hey, relax. I'm a natural." Tom assured him.

Tim approached a mirror on the wall, and checked behind it. He explained to Tommy, "I'm searching for any hidden safes that Indiana might not have informed you about."

Tommy shrugged. "I've already checked this place twice over, but go ahead." He sat lazily in his chair, watching Tim move around the room, checking all the mirrors and paintings. "So, who's watching Kaaren tonight?"

"Ned's arranged for some neighbors to look after her." Tim said, peeking behind a painting of Amelia Earhart. "Though I'm certain she's capable of keeping herself safe. From what he's told me about her, she's seen worse times."

Tim felt a sense of respect and protectiveness for the young woman, for reasons he wasn't certain of. She reminded him of someone he'd once known, had once looked after. It was almost driving him crazy that he couldn't remember who it was.

Tom hauled himself up from his chair and stretched. Along with his baggy suit, he wore that Steamboat Willie necktie. He grabbed his signature fedora off the counter next to the radio. He made an attempt at an putting his hat on with an elegant twirl, and instead sent it spinning into the back wall. Looking a little embarrassed, Tom picked his hat back up, and retrieved the joker card that had fallen out of its brim.

"Is that a zoot suit?" Tim asked curiously.

"Yeah." Tommy put his hat back on. "What of it?"

Zoot suits were popular among youths of African American and Hispanic descent. Seeing it on a skinny white boy was…strange. Tim made a face that might replace a shrug, and continued checking the room.

"Another question Chicago," Tim said, glancing under the table. "Does Kitty Indiana have any friends or enemies with facial art?"

Tom, who'd been sneaking another swig from his bottle, stopped and made a face. He sloshed the booze in his mouth before swallowing and replying. "Big Indian fellow, tattoo over his eye?" Tom placed three fingers over his forehead, mimicking the tattoo.

"Yes." Tim said. "He seemed to be spying on Felix and me." Tim briefly summed up his and Ned's encounter with the man, over at the restaurant.

"I know that guy. His name's Charles Liberty." Tom confirmed. "I served with him in the War, after I transfered from the Air Force. I just ran into him earlier today. He hates me. I've got no idea what he'd want from you or Ned, though. Maybe he just fancies you," Tom laughed.

Uncertain whether Tom was joking or not, Tim said, "He seemed to 'fancy' Miss Hanson. He—"

The radio made Tim pause.

"… _Mickey Kazon, suspected to have ties with the Mafia in San Francisco, was found dead in his home this morning_ …"

"You, uh, heard about that murder this morning?" Tom asked.

"Yes." Tim glanced at the driver. "Did you know him?"

Tom shook his head. "Me, no. I never met him, directly."

Tim understood the subtext. He shouldn't be surprised, he realized, that Mickey Kazon would have come in contact with Kitty Indiana's gang. Tom had probably run across some of Kazon's underlings.

"This murder doesn't involve us," Tim asked Tom, "does it?"

Tommy ran a hand through is hair. "I don't think so…I _hope_ not…this is kind of a messy business, so it's sometimes hard to…" he stopped suddenly, at the next name mentioned in the report.

"… _A relative of Torres, who asked not to be named, was near the murder scene, but did not realize Torres was in town_ …"

"Someone you know?" Tim asked.

"Probably not," Tom replied. "It's a common enough name."

Tim continued listening carefully to the report. When the newsman began describing the second suspect, the small man with the large eyes and the scarf, Tim moved closer to the radio.

"Tim?" Tommy looked at the detective. "Someone _you_ know in that report?"

Tim thought it over. "Possibly."

He still wasn't certain it was Jon Gardener. It would be highly unlikely, and as Ned had pointed out, plenty of "bug-eyed hobos" fit that description. But still…

"Mr. Excelsior! Mr. Chicago."

Tim and Tommy both turned at the sound of Indiana's voice.

"Miss Indiana!" Tim flashed a toothy smile. "It's good to see you."

The café owner was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at them. She wore that red, pirate-like dress again. Staring down at them from the top of the stairs, with that lacy collar and eye patch, Indiana looked more than ever like a pirate queen. Tim was reminded of what she could do to him, Ned and Mr. Chicago, if she found out about their agenda.

"You about ready to set up shop, Mr. Excelsior?" Indiana asked.

Tim nodded. "Indeed."

Kitty made a face at Tim's unusual word choice. "Good. I think tonight's gonna be busy." She looked at Tom. "You gonna try to make some money tonight, Chicago?"

Tim realized she was asking Tom if he planned on gambling tonight.

Tom shrugged. "I think I'll socialize for a little while first."

Kitty and Tom headed back up the stairs, to the main floor. Tim turned back to the roulette wheel, his mind racing. Mickey Kazon, a gangster Kitty had had some interaction with, was dead. The suspect in jail might be related to someone Tommy Chicago knew. One of Tom's old war buddies was spying on him and Felix. And the other suspect to Kazon's murder, out on the loose, sounded for all the world like the insane murderer who'd ruined Tim's life two years ago.

* * *

Annie was shaking as she dressed herself for the night's performance. She slipped into a long gown of an iridescent, dark blue material that would've been a tube top, if not for one thick strap of fabric cutting across her chest. She hesitated to step out from behind the changing wall, frightened she'd see Bruna Rike sitting in the room waiting for her. To her relief, the monster of a woman wasn't there. She sat at her mirror to do her jewelry and makeup. She left her hair as it was, with the roll over her forehead and the rest sitting over her shoulders. As she put on her diamond chandelier earrings, she was painfully reminded by her reflection in the mirror of her connection to Bruna Rike.

All the men thought her metallic blotches, gold hair, and blue eyes were alluring. That quiet Indian, Charles, found her alluring. If he knew who else had once welcomed her "Aryan" looks, and given her a place to fit in despite her disease—the thought of him finding out made her sick.

He'd probably be at the café tonight. And she had a strong feeling Bruna Rike would be there too.

When the curtain opened, and Annie began her first number—"Sway With Me"—she saw him at a table close to the stage. Charles was conversing casually with a couple of the Cabin's regulars (the goateed scientist, and his blond wife who was prone to blood-curdling screams). But Charles' black eyes kept wandering back to Annie. Her voice wavered slightly, which the crowd seemed to interpret as deliberate inflections in her song. She forced her eyes away from him, and scanned the rest of the crowed as she sang. Tommy Chicago was by the bar, flirting with a couple of women. Harry Kimitsu was behind her of course, playing his clarinet. Kitty Indiana was making rounds around the tables, socializing with her customers.

She was almost finished with her song when she saw the Nazi enter the café. Bruna strode in wrapped in a silver fox skin coat, carrying herself like she owned the place. She didn't make eye contact with Annie, but marched on smugly as if she knew Annie was looking at her.

* * *

"Seven looks so pretty," Naomi said, staring at the large screen on the wall of the Astrometrics lab.

All heads turned to see Naomi standing in the doorway.

Three of Seven's underlings were in the lab. Tal Celes, a jumpy young Bajoran woman who did menial tasks in Astrometrics, was running a diagnostic. And the identical twins, Ensigns Megan and Jenny Delaney, who specialized in stellar cartography, were hard at work. The twins were out of uniform. Without the gold and green colors to tell them apart, Naomi only knew who was who with the help of her Ktarian attention to detail, giving her an ability to notice subtleties in the twins' appearances and postures that most people on board wouldn't have. Megan was wearing a black and red leotard, the kind people often wore when playing hoverball or Velocity. Jenny was dressed like something out of a fantasy program. She looked like the elf archer archetype, sans the pointed ears (the holodeck usually added those).

" _Merde_ ," a surprised Megan Delaney swore in her native (Canadian) French. "I think you took two years off my life, Kid!"

"What are you doing here Naomi?" Jenny asked, straightening her leafy green tunic.

"Looking for some place I can help, since they booted me out of Engineering. What are you two doing out of uniform?"

Megan answered, "I was playing Velocity with some friends when this whole crisis hit. Jenny was in the middle of a 'Latinum Throne' campaign. Ayala said not to bother changing. We've basically been living in Astrometrics for the last day and a half."

"Here," Jenny gestured to the screen. "You can help by monitoring the program for us. Tell us if anything important happens. Take notes, maybe."

"Have been," Naomi held up a PADD.

"And you're right." Megan Delaney agreed, glancing at the screen. "Seven looks gorgeous. I've been telling her she should let her hair down more often, literally."

"But, _why_ she's on that stage is driving me up a wall." Jenny said with frustration. "What's the point?"

Megan shook her head. "Just part of this stupid program." She swore again in French. "I'm really starting to lose faith in the holodeck."

"I know you don't mean that Meg," her twin said.

The twins loved the holodeck almost as much as Tom Paris and Harry Kim did.

"I just might. All the times this thing has malfunctioned…Tuvok's program, the Fair Haven witch hunt, the aliens and Tom's 'Captain Proton' program, the Hirogen and WWII, the captain's da Vinci hologram getting loose, that Beowulf thing way back in year one… I'm seriously starting to think we should just beam the entire holodeck into a singularity and stick to reading books for the rest of the journey."

"But in those incidents you mentioned," Jenny pointed out, "the malfunctions weren't so… _complete_. I mean, this like someone _anticipated_ us trying to get in and communicate with the crew, and blocked every possible way they could. It reminds me of when Seska's hologram took over Tuvok's Insurrection Alpha program." She placed her hands on her thick elegant belt, pondering the situation. "But the senior staff deleted that program for good."

Naomi timidly suggested, "Maybe Seska had a backup hologram somewhere."

Megan shook her head. "We've checked all the holodeck files upside-down and inside-out. There's no trace of that program anywhere on the ship. Believe me, after that incident, a lot of people went to extra lengths to make sure that bitch wouldn't be coming back to haunt us again."

She was speaking from personal experience. Megan was a member of Chakotay's former Maquis crew; Jenny had requested to be reassigned to Voyager when she'd heard they were tracking her sister's Maquis ship. Tal Celes naturally empathized with Megan's disdain for Seska. Tal had not appreciated learning that one of the other Bajorans aboard—one who'd claimed to have lived through the same horrors Tal had under Cardassian occupation—had turned out to be a Cardassian herself.

"I don't know," Jenny continued to fiddle with her leafy sleeve. "That Seska hologram sure seems to know a lot more than she's letting on."

"That was always Seska's attitude." Megan said. "Before the big reveal I just thought she did it to sound smart. Now I think she did it to confuse us. It's just part of how Chakotay and B'Elanna and everyone else would remember her. Just like Kes acting sweet, and B'Elanna's father being a jerk."

Jenny shrugged, and turned back to her console.

Naomi folded her arms on the console and stared back at the screen. Though the program was fun to watch sometimes, it was beginning to really aggravate Naomi to see Seven, Captain Janeway, Harry, and the others in such danger, and being unable to do anything about it.

* * *

 _God damn it._

He was supposed to be following Tim Excelsior, and finding that Bird. Billie was counting on him. Everyone back home, his sister, his cousins, his whole family and tribe were depending on him to find that Bird. If he didn't find it soon they'd all be on the streets, and their home of almost a century would become a shrine to the ugliest Mickey Mouse ripoff ever drawn.

The eccentric couple Charles had been conversing with moments ago told him a Colored man with pointed ears had been hired as the new roulette wheel runner, and was probably downstairs. Charles knew he should be down there right now. But he couldn't force himself to leave his table as long as Annie Hanson was singing.

It was a peculiar combination of traits that made Charles fall for a woman. They had to be smart, and they had to have strong personalities; yet they needed to need rescuing. It was what had originally drawn him to Seraphine, her fiery personality coupled with the sob stories she'd fed him. He wasn't worried about Annie using him like Seraphine had though. Annie's adorably ineffectual social skills were evidence that she was genuine. Those blotches on her face, he realized, also drew him to her. They not only made her look different than all the other "tens," they signaled that small weakness he wanted in an otherwise strong female.

Come to think of it, wouldn't it be a good idea to get to know another one of the workers here? Talking to Annie would be a far more subtle way to find out about Mr. Excelsior than just marching up to the man himself.

But Annie might be onto him. The way she'd left so abruptly in the coffee shop earlier... The way she kept glancing at him now, without looking happy to see him. Of course, it could be that she was afraid to be seen with a non-white man. With that disease all over her face, maybe she was afraid he might drag her social status down even further. Yet she hadn't seemed to mind his heritage one bit, when he'd told her about it earlier. And of all places in the country to have an interracial relationship, one could do far worse than California. No, he decided. It wasn't the race issue that bothered her. It was something concerning some business she had. This revelation brought a smile onto Charles' face, not only because it meant she still might be interested in him, but also because he now had an excuse to stay near her. He had to find out what she was up to, and what connections she had to the bird statue.

Her song ended, but her time on the stage didn't. She had another number, a slow tune with a steady beat, which Charles had heard on the radio a few times. It was usually sung by a man, but Annie put her own feminine spin on the tune.

" _One more kiss dear…one more sigh_ …"

"Chuck!"

 _No._

 _"Only this dear...is goodbye.."_

Charles glanced up, and saw Tommy Marseilles standing over his table, holding a drink. Was that a zoot suit he was wearing? With a Mickey Mouse tie? And a hat, indoors? Decorated with what looked like the saddest items from the reject bin of a rummage sale?

"Can I sit here?"

Tom pulled out a chair, seating himself even as Charles said loudly and rudely, " _No_."

Tom chuckled. "You despise me, don't you."

Charles stared at Tommy a moment, then lit himself a new cigarette. "If I gave you any thought I probably would."

Tom shook his head. "Good movie. Saw it when it first came out."

"... _So in the spring time, like sweet memories, they will return as will I_..."

* * *

" _Casablanca_!" Jenny Delaney suddenly explained.

Naomi, Megan and Tal stared at her.

"That line—that 'you despise me'—that's from an old Earth film, 'Casablanca.' Remember Megan, that back-and-white movie I downloaded from the ship's database, that we watched on my monitor? With that little weird guy you thought was attractive?"

Megan was slowly nodding. "Yeah, that's the one we told Tom to watch, to get ideas for this noir program. What of it?"

"Tom hasn't seen it yet, Megan. He told me, two days ago when he was gonna take the senior staff to his program's premier. He said he hadn't gotten a chance to watch it yet, but might make changes to his program later if he got ideas. He and Chakotay are quoting movies they haven't seen, Megan."

Megan squinted at her twin.

"So," Tal broke in, "what you're saying is, that movie quote didn't come from Paris's subconscious. The person in charge of this program brainwashed him with it?"

"That's _exactly_ what I'm saying." Jenny said. "So that whole theory we had before, about Seska and Kes and all the other crazy coincidences coming from everybody's subconscious—I think it's tribble shit now. This is _not_ a malfunction. Someone is paying games with our senior staff."

"But," Tal Celes asked, "Couldn't they have just seen the movie while in this program?"

"Sure, but Tom just said he saw it when it first came out."

"Maybe he's lying, or misremembering."

Megan however was nodding at her twin. "I wouldn't have caught all those details, Jen. I'll see if I can make up for that though." Megan began typing furiously at a wall panel. "I'm gonna check to see if anyone's accessed our quarters' programs, Jenny. The films we've downloaded, our logs…" After a few moments she stopped. "Well how about that."

Tal, Jenny and Naomi stared at her.

"How about what?" Jenny asked.

"It's encrypted." Megan turned back to the other women. "Looks like someone _did_ hack into our profiles in the ship's database, and then covered his or her tracks. I'll eat my words Sis, you were right. Someone's deliberately messing with us." She looked like she had more to say, and it looked like it was going to be bad news. Her eyes widened. " _Bordel de merde…_ "

Jenny stood with her arms folded, and raised her eyebrows, urging her sister to continue. When Megan didn't reply, Jenny whispered, " _Que, Sœur_?"

Megan sighed deeply. "This _should_ be impossible," she turned to her twin. "But I think it has Seska written all over it."


	8. Perfidia

The search seemed futile.

Lieutenants Ayala and Andrews had managed to scrape together a list of crewmembers that _might_ have had _possible_ motivations, or means for causing the holo-malfunction. But all of the suspects were very unlikely, and their reasons for being on the list were dubious at best. They questioned Sam Wildman, Mortimer Harren, and a few others who might have more reason than most to be angry about being trapped in the Delta Quadrant. T'Vora, the Vulcan ex-Maquis, was questioned, as she'd objected to Chakotay's decision to adapt to Starfleet ways seven years ago. Vorik might possibly have had the engineering skills to pull it off. The five former Equinox crewmen were questioned.

They also considered less malicious motives. Tal Celes might've done something on accident to cause it, and then in one of her panics, tried to cover it up. One or more of the Maquis might still be suffering some effects from the mass brainwashing that had overtaken them not long ago. Naomi or Icheb might have made some adolescent mistake they were too afraid to admit. But in the end, Ayala and Andrews had nothing.

The Delaney sisters, however, did come up with something. They burst into Sickbay just as Andrews and Ayala were finishing updating the Doctor on their (lack of) progress. The twins were out of uniform, Megan in a Velocity leotard and Jenny dressed like she'd come from a fantasy holonovel. The Doctor was one of the few crewmembers blessed with the ability to distinguish the twins without their uniforms, having a greater memory and attention to detail than most organics.

"We did some hacking around," Jenny Delaney reported, "And found out that someone else has also been hacking the ship's systems."

"Take a look," Megan Delaney handed the Doctor a PADD.

He read her findings with a speed only an EMH was blessed with. "These holograms were imported from other files!"

Jenny nodded. "The holograms of Kes, Seska, B'Elanna's dad, they did _not_ come from anyone's subconscious. They were imported from other holonovels, or created based on information taken from personal logs."

"Why…" Andrews shook his head, baffled. "Why would anyone want to import new holograms for the program? Didn't Tom and Harry already have it populated?"

"We might have an answer for that one, actually," Megan said. "When the senior staff was first hit with that neural link, when the holodeck locked up and the Doctor was booted out of the program, the inside of the holodeck suffered a few hits to its power. We suspect it destroyed a chunk of the holograms, so whoever planned this just imported new ones. Mostly from 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

"Tuvok's old program?" Ayala looked up sharply. "The Maquis mutiny everyone was playing way back when?"

"Yep," Megan placed one fist on her hip. "The one Seska hijacked. That Seska hologram was imported into Tom's noir program one less than half an hour before the senior staff went to try it out. That would've been while Lt. Paris was eating dinner with the rest of them, so it can't have been Tom who put Seska in his program."

"But wait a minute," Andrews cut in. "I thought Torres and her team deleted that sodding program. How the hell..?"

"Obviously Seska made some kind of backup." Megan sighed. "And don't ask us where that was hidden, we're still trying to figure that part out."

Jenny added, "The Kes hologram was also taken from 'Insurrection Alpha,' along with Joe Carrey, and Hogan and a lot of other likenesses. Remember Crewman Kaplan?"

"I remember her," the Doctor said. "She was killed on an away mission about four years ago."

"She was also in Tuvok's program, in the background. Remember in this one, when 'Charles Liberty' held a door opened for a woman and her kid?"

"I…can't say that I do."

"Well that was Kaplan. And the barista who gave Seven her bagel and coffee," Jenny leaned over and pointed to a picture of a red-haired ensign on the PADD. "Ensign Lindsay Ballard."

Megan added, "The poor bastard Seska shot in the car was Michael Jonas."

The Doctor scrolled down the pictures and names on the PADD. "It seems like _most_ of these holograms came from 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

"Well Boothby came from Chakotay's boxing program." Megan said. "A few others are from 'Fair Haven,' 'Captain Proton,' 'Lord of the Rings,' 'A Christmas Carol'...'"

Andrews dark eyes widened, and he turned to Ayala. "I _told_ you, that politician in Kitty's café looked like Gandalf!"

Ayala peered at the PADD over the Doctor's shoulder. "Is that Sandrine? She should wear suits more often."

Jenny reached over and scrolled through the images. "Two stock holograms that keep showing up all over the program are actually Dr. Chaotica and Constance Goodheart, from 'Captain Proton.'" She pointed to a picture of a wealthy looking couple in Kitty's café. "One of the waiters is the king from 'Beowulf.' The 'corrupt cop' cliche looks like our human doctor who died seven years ago, and the movie star he's talking to here is Ensign Jetal."

The Doctor flinched at the mention of the patient whose death had traumatized him to the point of malfunctioning.

"Sounds like they're _all_ imported from other programs," Ayala mused.

"Well B'Elanna's dad was created from her personal logs," Jenny said. "The captain's fiancé too."

"Hey," Ayala realized, "Are some of _us_ in this program? I know I saw myself in 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

Jenny shook her head. "Current crewmembers can't be included in any program without their personal authorization codes, or a senior officer's. Even if they're pulled from a preexisting program. Of course the departed ones have a similar rule, but they're all guarded under a certain access code, and whoever's behind this apparently managed to crack that one."

Megan nodded at the PADD. "There's one 'departed crewmember' in particular that had us a bit concerned."

"I'm afraid to ask." The Doctor said.

Andrews and Ayala exchanged a wearied glance, bracing themselves for the bad news.

Megan reached over, and scrolled down through the PADD for the Doctor, stopping on a photo of a gray-haired Betazoid. "One more from 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

Ayala said it. "Lon Suder."

The Doctor said quietly, "Something tells me this won't be the 'Lon Suder' who helped me retake Voyager from the Kazon."

Ayala and Megan, who'd both seen Suder in action in the Maquis, looked at each other uncomfortably.

"There's something else," Jenny said. "The Bird statue is masked to look like a regular hologram. But we've found traces of updates made to it. We don't know what for but we can guess it isn't good. We think the Bird might be the key to controlling the crew's neural links, or at least have some role in what caused all of this."

"That's just one hypothesis," Megan said. "Another is that the Bird is some kind of weapon that'll finish off whoever's left standing with it at the end of the 'story.' And maybe everyone outside the holodeck too."

Ayala listened with folded arms, black eyes on the floor. "And, any hypothesises—hyp—hypothe..."

" _Hypotheses_ ," the Doctor sighed.

Ayala made a face and shrugged. "Any ideas who's behind reactivating Seska's old program?"

Megan matched Ayala's reluctant shrug. "It _looks_ like Seska."

Her sister seemed to think it was obvious. "Who else would be responsible for cracking opened Seska's old holonovel? Would anyone else think to seek 'revenge' by trapping the senior staff in a historical program with fake memories?"

Andrews began, "It doesn't make any damn sen..." He nodded. "It's Seska."

Ayala's head moved in a tiny nod. "Seska," he quietly agreed.

Ayala unfolded his arms, and glanced at the PADD he'd been holding since he and Andrews had come to update the Doctor on their suspect search. Seska was certainly a better candidate than anyone on that list.

Everyone in Sickbay jumped when he threw his PADD at a nearby biobed with frightening force. For a few seconds the Doctor, Andrews and the twins watched their de facto captain seethe, his hands clenched into tight fists.

His voice still barely audible, Ayala explained, "I _really_ hate that Cardassian. Always did."

* * *

Tommy Chicago watched his old brother-in-arms across the table. For the first time all night, Charles was able to momentarily ignore Annie up on the stage.

"Nice hang out, huh." Tom sipped his drink with mock casualness.

"Classier place than I'd expect to see you, Marseilles."

"Oh, so you weren't _expecting_ to find me here." Tom set down his drink and folded his arms. "So I guess it's just a coincidence that you happened to track my two coworkers to this café."

Up on the stage, Harry was watching Tom nervously, as he played his clarinet. Annie's blue eyes also flicked over to Tom and Charles continuously throughout her song.

"Guess this is my week for running into old acquaintances." Charles said, in a tone that seemed to imply something.

Tom gave him a look. "Like who?"

Charles closed his mouth. He stared at Tom, like he was trying to read him.

Okay, now Tom was confused. Charles followed Tim and Ned here…not expecting to find Tom…and now he seemed to be accusing Tom of something. He really _hadn't_ expected to find Tom here. He thought _Tom_ had sprung up on _him_. And that _Tom_ was the one who was up to something.

"I don't know what you think is going on here, Chuck." Tom finally said. "I'm a driver for Miss Indiana. If you have a beef with Excelsior or Felix, ambushing them at work's a pretty lousy move. But, I guess that's between you and them. Now," Tom pinched up his drink, "I'm gonna be making my way down to the roulette wheel, so if you want, I can deliver a message for you."

"Thanks," Charles said flatly. "That won't be necessary."

Tom shrugged, and sauntered away from the table.

Before he reached the staircase Charles called, "Hey Marseilles, too bad about that Mickey Kazon."

Tom stopped and turned around.

Now he really had no idea what Charles was implying, or why. What did Charles care about a gangster like Kazon? And what in god's name made him think Tom had anything to do with it? Tom heard the news caster's voice in his head, repeating the name, John Torres… _Torres_ …Did this have something to do with Billie after all? How was that possible? She was miles away, in Chicago, wasn't she? And Chuck had no way of knowing about her, did he?

Then Tom recalled how he'd found Charles, just earlier that day. Unconscious, in the middle of the road, covered in injuries. Had he simply been mugged? Or had his luck fallen, and dropped him into the same criminal underworld Tom was a part of? It would explain a bit…

Straightening the jacket of his zoot suit, Tom finally replied, "Not really. What I hear the guy had it coming."

If Chuck thought he was gonna intimidate Tom, two knew how to play that game.

Charles didn't look intimidated. But then again, Tom knew that Charles often turned to stone when he was nervous.

Tom left and headed down to the game room.

* * *

Annie finished her performance with "Put the Blame on Mame," a number that involved far more hip action than the other songs. In the back of the café, Bruna Rike sipped a drink and watched Annie with a cold, threatening smile. Annie threw everything into her song and dance, to show Bruna that she wasn't going to scare her.

As Annie peeled off one glove to the roar of the crowd, her eyes got stuck on Charles. It was the first time she'd seen him wearing a full-on smile. The second she noticed his dimples, she found herself tossing the glove in his direction, before she could employ her better judgment. The iridescent blue glove landed over his face. After freezing for one second, he reached up with a shaking hand and pulled it off, his face now bright red. Annie tore her gaze away and found herself looking back and Bruna. The Nazi sipped her drink slowly with an unreadable expression. By the bar, Miss Indiana was looking at Annie's admirer. The café owner glanced from him to Annie, with an amused raised eyebrow.

Bruna Rike suddenly shot up from her seat and waltzed right out of the cafe, almost without paying. Annie watched the Nazi quickly fish out an enormous bill, and shove it in the confused bartender's face, before exiting the building.

Realizing that her crowd was applauding, Annie took her bow and left the stage. She saw Harry fumbling with this music sheet, as the band prepared for their next song. His face was almost as red as Charles.' Annie knew Harry had something of a schoolboy crush on her, and she now realized he'd also just spent the last three minutes with her tightly-clad behind swinging in his face. She would be giggling uncontrollably by now, both at Harry and Charles, if Bruna Rike just been in the room.

Annie was on her way to the washroom when the band struck up a jazzy version of an instrumental Spanish tune called "Perfidia."

"Miss Henson?"

She stopped, but didn't turn around. Charles came around to face her, still grinning with embarrassment.

"This is yours," he offered her the glove.

Annie swallowed, and carefully took the glove as if it might explode. "Thank you."

"If you're not going anywhere, Annie," he said softly, "I'd like to have this dance."

Harry's clarinets music was echoing through the café. Annie's mind was shooting off into a hundred different directions at once. _The Bird, find the Bird…that voice…Bruna Rike watching…stay away from him, he doesn't want…Hitler Youth…love this tune…god those eyes_ —

"I'm…not a good dancer."

"Neither am I." He held out his hand.

She took it, and he put his other arm around her. She hooked her free arm around his shoulder, and they began to move.

* * *

The gambling room was exploding with angry shouts and cursing as Tom tore up the stairs.

Below, one of the other gamblers shouted, "If I see your ugly face in this game room again cabby, I'll burn it to the bone with acid!"

At the top of the stairs, Tom turned and dipped his hat to the angry mob. "Honest mistake, everybody, my apologies! You'd be surprised how much junk can get lost in this baggy tent of a suit—" He quickly ducked a heavy flower face someone threw his way.

One of the gangsters below grabbed a small but heavy looking stone bust of Sir Isaac Newton off a shelf, and lifted it in one hand like a baseball player about to make a pitch. Tom's eyes bulged, and he ducked instinctively. But Tim Excelsior quickly stopped the man's arm.

"That's enough Quinn," Tim said.

The gangster glared at him. "Well if ain't Ming the Merciless—"

Tim's hand clasped over Mr. Quinn's wrist in a painful-looking iron grip, and wrenched the bust away from the stunned gangster. "Indeed."

After replacing Newton on the shelf and seeing Quinn reluctantly retake his seat at the Roulette Wheel, Tim came up the steps and whispered flatly to Tom, "For future reference Mr. Chicago, most card games only allow four Aces per deck."

Tom nodded innocently, and turned away. He decided to go to the bar.

On his way, he saw that people were on the dance floor now. Was that Annie out there, dancing with Liberty? He watched them sway with the other lovers under the mirror ball, and wasn't happy. But not for the reason that most men watching them were unhappy. Annie wasn't Tom's type at all. Too controlled and calculating, and way too typical-Hollywood-beauty for his tastes. No, Tom's displeasure had something to do with the fact that he didn't trust her admirer as far as he could throw him, and maybe some bitterness because he no longer had Billie to dance with.

 _First Chuck shows up in the middle of the road, beaten unconscious. Then he's creeping after Tim and Ned, and now he's cozying up to Annie._

"Is that him Mr. Chicago?" Kitty Indiana whispered, coming up next to Tom.

Tom nodded. "Charles Liberty. I served with him in the War. What he's doing here I haven't the foggiest."

"Liberty." Kitty took a drag from her cigarette. "Why does that name ring a bell?"

"Tell me that wasn't a pun." Tom groaned.

Kitty apparently hadn't thought of that. She gave a short laugh, and smacked Tom playfully on the arm. "When they're finished with this dance I think I'll have a word with Mr. Liberty."

They watched Annie and Charles conversing and flirting as they moved around the dance floor. Annie looked tense the entire time. Tom wasn't sure if she was just nervous, or if she was suspicious of Charles like he was. Maybe she suspected something, and was worming information out of him. Annie was smart, and using her beauty to her advantage wasn't beneath her.

As soon as the song ended, Miss Indiana came up beside the couple. "Annie, aren't you going to introduce me to your date?"

Both faces reddened, Annie's more so. She looked at him shyly, and he introduced himself to Indiana.

"Charles Liberty."

"Liberty," Indiana said politely. "That name sounds familiar. Have you been in this club before?"

"No. This is my first time." Looking back at Annie he added, "I'd've been dropping by a lot more often if I'd known how pretty your singers were here."

After the polite laughter died down, Kitty asked Annie, "Would you be terribly jealous if I asked your boyfriend for the next dance?"

"Not at all." Annie smiled. "I was just going to my break room anyway."

Charles looked disappointed to see her leave.

As Annie passed Tom, he grabbed her arm. "Hey Annie."

"What is it Tom." She sounded annoyed.

Tom jerked his head in Charles' direction. "Y'know that guy followed our two new workers here?"

Annie's blue eyes darted thoughtfully. "Does Miss Indiana know?"

"Oh yeah."

Annie thought it over. "Perhaps they're all cops. It could be a raid."

She looked over her shoulder at Charles. Harry's band was striking up a new tune, and Charles and Indiana were starting to sway.

"Let's keep an eye on them." Tom suggested.

"Very well. You can watch the cook and the gambling man."

Annie left for her changing room before Tom could tell her that he was no longer welcome near the gambling room.

* * *

"Indiana," Charles said conversationally. "That name sounds familiar to me too. Maybe we do know each other."

"Not necessarily." Kitty Indiana said. "My father Henry Indiana was pretty famous in this part of San Francisco. Or infamous?"

Charles repeated the name. "Henry Indiana…"

 _Oh...yeah._

"As a matter of fact I do know that name. I don't think I ever met Mr. Indiana personally, but my father did some work with him."

"What kind of work?" Kitty asked conversationally.

Charles was silent a moment. Then he said, "He was one of the delivery boys, over in Arizona."

Kitty looked sharply at him, and her single blue eye flicked up to his tattoo. "I see."

Well this was going to be a fun night.

As Charles spun Indiana around, she said much too casually, "Seems our fathers had a bit of a falling out."

"That's one way to put it." Charles said. "Another way to put it is that Henry Indiana paid the Indians less than a quarter of what he paid his other Colored workers, never mind the white ones. Then when we switched allegiances to someone who'd treat us better, he ratted us all out and sent my father and most of my uncles to the cooler. Or," he spun her around again, "Yet another way to say it is that we were animals in this society and Indiana was one of the parasites who lived off us."

Indiana spun back into Charles, and looked him sternly in the eye. Finally she said, "Even a parasite has to eat."

After a few more dance steps Charles said, "Understand I'm not blaming you for what your father did. It's not your fault you're related to him."

"My father was a great man." Kitty warned.

Charles was amazed at the gall of this woman, and how well he himself had kept his cool so far. "Am I missing something?"

Kitty changed the subject. "What do you want at my cafe, Mr. Liberty?"

"A family heirloom, that was stolen from my tribe a few generations ago. I got a tip someone here might have it."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to." Her tone of voice said that she was lying and not even wasting effort on trying to hide it.

Quietly, just loud enough for only Kitty to hear, he said, "So you do have the Bird. That's good to know."

After a moment, Kitty replied, "Maybe I do and maybe I don't."

Charles suddenly realized he had no idea how he was going to convince a wealthy white businesswoman that she should give him the silver bird.

Still keeping his voice low, he asked her, "What if I told you, that I was an undercover cop, willing to be bribed?"

"Can I see a badge?" Kitty retorted.

Committed to his ruse, Charles bluffed, "That and my uniform, after you're behind bars."

"Kinky."

"I mean it. I'm devoted to the law, but I'm more devoted to my people. If you give me that Bird I'll forget I ever found this place."

Kitty Indiana suddenly grabbed Charles by the lapels of his suit and pulled him close. She whispered in his ear, in a low cold voice, "Listen carefully to me Liberty. You can throw me in the clink and tear this café apart brick-by-brick, and you will _never_ find that Bird."

* * *

The door to Annie Henson's dressing room was opened just a crack, and the singer was peering at Indiana and Charles Liberty on the dance floor. With her unusually heightened hearing, Annie was able to get every word, every whisper, as clearly as if she had been standing next to them. When Kitty said "brick by brick," Annie almost felt her heart stop.

Kitty had just given it away. For Annie at least.

For a moment, Annie considered taking the Bird straight to Charles. After all he and his tribe had been through, that Bird could probably solve a lot of their problems, set them up for years. He'd be eternally grateful…until Bruna Rike made good on her threat, and revealed Annie's past to everyone. Then Charles would see the gesture as a pathetic suck-up attempt to make up for her atrocities, which was exactly what it was.

Annie's only chance in Hell of continuing to live a semi-normal life was to get that Bird to Bruna Rike.

Neither Charles nor Miss Indiana should ever have to know.

* * *

"Please, Miss Indiana, just humor me." Charles whispered. "Why do you deserve that Bird more than I do?"

"Because it's not for me. It's for people I know, who need some money to keep themselves off the streets."

Charles blinked, taking this news in. He almost had a new-found respect for Kitty Indiana. Almost.

"That's what we need it for. The only difference is, that the Bird is rightfully ours, seeing as we made it."

"Your ancestors made it Mr. Liberty. Not you. Sorry, but I'm a follower of the loose-fish philosophy."

Charles recognized the literary reference. "Moby Dick was a horrible book."

Kitty's blue eye and red lacy patch slowly turned back to him, as if that crossed the line.

* * *

Annie Henson hurried up the narrow staircase to Kitty's sitting room, picked the lock with her hair pin, then slipped inside. She locked the door behind her, and left the lights off. She could see in the dark, and turning on the lights might draw attention from outside.

She walked along the brick walls of the room, taking a careful look at each individual brick.

Annie and Kitty often made sculptures out of clay together, back when Kitty had first rescued her from the Third Reich. Kitty had taught Annie a trick you could do with clay, and Annie couldn't believe she hadn't remembered that before now.

Finally, she found a patch of bricks in the wall that didn't belong there. They appeared to have the same shape, texture and color as the other bricks, but brushing her hand on it, Annie found they were soft and flaky. Dried clay. Now, to get it out. She searched the room for a tool, and settled on the stirring spoon from Kitty's nearby tea set. Annie carved away the corners of the clay brick, until she had enough room to pull the massive chunk of clay out from the wall.

Breathing heavily, she dug into the chunk of clay with the spoon, searching for the bird. She had to be sure. She scraped at the dried clay, until the spoon hit something hard, and she carved away just enough to see the glistening hint of silver.

But god, how to get it out of the room now? The block of clay was larger than a football. There was no way she would be sneaking it out through the café. She searched desperately for a way out.

There was a little water closet in the sitting room, and Annie happened to know that that water closet had a window.

* * *

Megan Delaney groaned over her console. "Were these detective stories always this _slow_?"

"It's a plot story," her twin said. "It's not about the gun play and the car chases. Maybe you miss those old Maquis days, huh?"

"Sometimes," Megan said dryly.

After a shot few hours of sleep, the twins had changed into their uniforms and returned to Astrometrics to relieve Tal Celes, who'd looked ready to pass out.

The doors to Astrometrics suddenly slid opened, and Naomi entered with Icheb.

"Hey, you're in uniform!" Naomi commented.

"What did we miss?" Icheb asked.

The boy was getting the hang of vernacular, though he still didn't quite have voice inflictions down.

Jenny Delaney shrugged. "We found out the holograms were mostly downloaded from preexisting programs on the ship. Especially 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

Icheb looked at her. "Tuvok's mutiny program. I regret not being onboard when it was popular; the premise of a mutiny on Voyager sounds intriguing."

"It was pretty fun," Megan said, "Until Seska showed up. And we're pretty sure that exact same hologram is responsible for what's going on now. Guess Seska had a backup somewhere, though we can't find any place on the entire ship where it could possibly have come fr—What, Jenny?"

Jenny Delaney looked as if she'd just stepped on a rattlesnake. "What if…Seska's hologram wasn't _on_ the ship?" Jenny spoke slowly, seemingly discovering the idea as she said it. "What if it's in one of the shuttle crafts, or the Delta Flier!"

Megan thought it over. "But communication between the shuttles and the Flier are automatically recorded. Maybe something could get transferred to an alien shi—" she looked sharply at her sister. "Or _Neelix's_ ship!"

Naomi, who knew Neelix better than anyone in the room, couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it herself. "Neelix has been updating the Baxiel the entire trip! Something could've leaked in and no one would've noticed!"

"Could his ship store a hologram?" asked Icheb.

"Possibly," Megan said.

"Seven's cortical node could store a hologram," Jenny added.

Naomi nodded. "Neelix's ship is so old and fluke-y, he probably wouldn't notice anything fishy in there."

Megan hit her com badge. "Delaney to Ayala."

" _What've you found_?"

"Nothing. But we've had an epiphany."


	9. Shakedown

The senior staff had been trapped on the holodeck for less than three days, but it felt as if weeks had gone by. Another meeting had been called, to discuss progress and lack thereof. Ayala, Vorik, Wildman, Jenkins and Andrews all looked like they could use some sleep. In that regard, the Doctor was grateful to be a hologram. At the end of the table, Ayala rested his forehead on his fist, his jaw clenched. Most at the table paid little attention to this, thinking their de facto captain was just showing the same fatigue and frustration the rest of them were feeling. The Doctor however knew a bit about Ayala, mostly via Chakotay and Tuvok, who the security guard had more than a bit in common with. The Doctor knew he was looking at an officer working hard to conceal intense anger.

"Okay." Ayala pushed himself up into a professional sitting position. "Vorik, let's hear what your team found."

"Ensign Delaney and…Ensign Delaney…were correct. Seska's hologram came from Neelix's ship. You'll all recall, four years ago, Lt. Tuvok's holonovel 'Insurrection Alpha' became popular amongst the crew. When Tuvok reentered his own program, his presence triggered a change in the holonovel that Seska had installed, specifically to extract revenge on him."

"Revenge for _what_?" Amelia Jenkins sounded exasperated. "That was before Tuvok blew her cover as a Cardassian. They were on the same side, Starfleet and Cardassia against the Maquis."

"Seska's motives were an enigma," Vorik said. "In the program, she identified herself to Tuvok as a Maquis, and claimed to be taking revenge for his spying on them. Obviously her true purpose was hidden."

Ayala was rubbing his temple. "I don't think she was actually trying to kill him. I think she wanted to make it _look_ like someone from Chakotay's crew was trying to murder him, in order to start that mutiny she kept encouraging us all to undergo the first few weeks out here. Of course that never happened because Tuvok didn't reopen the program until years later."

"But why take the credit herself?" Amelia asked. "If she was trying to get us Starfleets riled against Chakotay's crew, why not make it look like Chakotay was the one who'd done all that?"

"Seska was hardly a rational person," the Doctor reminded her needlessly. "I doubt her mental stability. Unfortunately I never did get a chance to properly analyze and diagnose her."

Sam Wildman decided to bring this tangent to a close. "So it's Seska's hologram, and her motive is that she's crackers. Big shock. But where was she hiding a back-up program, and why did it not reactivate until now?"

Vorik explained, "When Tuvok tricked Seska's hologram into killing herself, the simulation ended. After that, Lt. Torres and a team of engineers, which included myself, deleted the program from all files. We then checked every other holoprogram, and other systems on the ship, for tampering. We did check the ships in the shuttle bay, but after our previous searches had already turned up negative, and Voyager began to face new obstacles…our searches were perhaps not as thorough as they could have been."

"A Vulcan admitting to not being through," Andrews muttered, "That's comforting."

Vorik's eyes moved in Andrews's direction, but he didn't respond. "It seems that Seska's hologram was programmed, upon 'dying,' to transfer itself to the database of the next closest vessel. In this case, the closest vessel was the one in Voyager's shuttle bay, Neelix's Talaxian freighter. Her hologram stayed dormant there, until a few months ago when we were all captured and brainwashed by the Quarrens. In order to come to our aid, Commander Chakotay and Mr. Neelix used the Baxiel to get through Quarren security. The Quarren security procedures included investigating the ship's files and database, and in doing so, the Quarrens unknowingly activated Seska's holographic consciousness in Neelix's ship. It remained active but decidedly _in_ active, until the Baxiel had returned to Voyager. "

Lt. Andrews was staring at the Vulcan, his brown eyes wide over their dark rings of exhaustion. The security guard's lips parted, and for a moment he looked ready to scream an obscenity. But instead, he simply mumbled, "Alright then," and settled back into his seat.

The Doctor continued Vorik's story. "From there, it seems Seska's hologram transferred herself back to Voyager's database and began combing the holofiles, as well as command and personal logs."

Sam's mouth fell opened. " _That's_ how she learned all these personal things, that the real Seska never lived to find out! Seven of Nine, and her guilt about her Borg past; Tuvok missing his family; B'Elanna's problems with her father; the Captain's fiancé…"

Disgusted, Jenkins folded her arms. "She's just toying with all of them. Everything that hurts them most."

Ayala smiled tightly and shook his head. "That's our Seska!"

"Hold on," Andrews shot up in his seat. "So this Seska hologram can exist as a, as a hologram _and_ as a digital computer program?" He looked at the EMH next to him. "Can you do that Doc?"

"I wasn't designed to," the Doctor said. "But I did manage to download myself into Seven's cortical node not too long ago, and control her body from there. Apparently Seska's hologram did something similar to Neelix's ship. If it's any consolation, it seems that she can't change at will; she's stuck in her solid hologram form until the program ends."

"And then what, she's just back in our database again, like a virus?"

"Pretty much," Sam confirmed.

Ayala cut in. "Well we can worry about weeding Seska out of the ship after we get the senior officers out of that program. Any ideas about how we do that?"

Vorik replied, "The engineering team has been working on a way to transfer the Doctor's program to the holodeck, so he can disable the interface."

"There's just one problem," The Doctor knitted his eyebrows. "The interface Seska is using works differently than the Hirogen's. Simply disabling the neural interface won't bring anyone's memories back. If there's another way to quickly undo the damage and restore them to their usual selves, we haven't figured it out yet. But some outside stimulation might help."

Sam looked at the hologram. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, if I can download my program into the holodeck, and make the adjustments needed to allow some of you to access it as well, we can start to," he shrugged, threw up a hand, "interact with the senior staff. Remind them of their real lives. Perhaps hold them off long enough to at least keep them from killing each other over a lump of holographic tin."

Vorik's eyebrows rose hopefully. "Perhaps we can convince them that it would be in their best interests to unite against Seska."

The Doctor seemed to like that idea. "Once Seska's gone and the senior staff is in Sickbay, then we'll have all the time we want to restore their memories."

"Sounds good to me." Andrews said. "So how do we get you inside Doc?"

The Doctor looked around the table. "I'm open to suggestions."

* * *

Tim Excelsior was gathering a lot of juicy information down in the roulette room. As the gangsters and their molls gambled, they chattered nonstop about their victories and failures in "the business," almost as if they thought Tim and the waiters weren't even there.

Resident hitman Gaunt Gary was bragging about his kills to the uninterested roulette table. "Miss Sandrine was asking me the other day—remember Sandy?—'do you usually do it with poison, or a gun or what's your secret?' and I shows her," the gangster flipped out a switch blade, startling far fewer people than the gesture should have.

"Hey watch it Gary!" Sandrine straightened her top hat. "I just got this suit from Paris."

"A cook's knife works just as well," a wealthy old woman told Gaunt Gary. "Take it from one very rich widow."

Gary laughed. "Oh Mrs. Templeton, you're my favorite!"

Since people were constantly coming and going, Tim barely even looked up when a new man came bustling down the staircase. But he did a double-take when he caught a flash of blue on the guy's forehead. It was his and Ned's shadow, the man with the tattoo. Liberty, Tom had said was his name. The punk was acting like he thought he'd fool Tim, strolling over to the roulette wheel like another innocent customer. Tim watched as the man pulled out a chair for himself.

It was Sandrine's turn at the wheel. Instead of spinning it for her, Tim quickly and apologetically told the French entrepreneur, "Excuse me," then turned to face Mr. Liberty.

Before Liberty was even sitting down, Tim fisted up a chunk of his suit and hauled him back to his feet. Despite being as tall as Tim and larger in build, Liberty felt was oddly light in Tim's grasp.

"We need to talk, Mr. Liberty."

Liberty's eyes locked with Tim's. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I came down here for."

"Indeed."

Tim pulled the man away from the table, still holding him by the shirt. The men and women at the roulette wheel watched them go with a curious silence. For a moment, Tim feared he was being too conspicuous. As he led Liberty up the stairs, he heard that gangster Quinn mutter to a friend, "What a pair of poofs." The others laughed, and the chatter resumed.

Tim dragged Liberty through the crowded club, and out the back door. Before the door had even slammed shut, Tim slammed Liberty against the brick wall and pinned him there by the shoulders. Liberty was a muscular guy, yet Tim somehow held him as easily as if he were a child.

"You've been following me, and my associate." Tim challenged.

Liberty nodded. "That's right."

"Why."

"You've got something that belongs to me. Or so I've been told."

Tim gave him a long look. "By whom?"

Liberty seemed to be in a difficult position. Finally he replied, "An anonymous party."

Tim made a face. "Naturally."

"I've got money," Liberty tried.

Tim looked back at him. "For what?"

"The Bird. The silver bird." Liberty's expression softened slightly. "It belongs to my tribe. We made it. We need it. We're in a tight spot. Thanks to your friend Miss Indiana's father, actually."

"You need it for financial reasons?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't have the money to pay for the statue's entire cost, as you just claimed. Otherwise you wouldn't need it."

Liberty chewed his lip and looked down.

"It is ours, by right." Liberty finally said. "And when I said we're in a 'tight spot' I'm taking about losing our home, being thrown onto the streets. So if you put any stock in moral obligation—"

"My first obligation is to my clients and business partners. I'm sympathetic to your story Mr. Liberty. But I'm equally sympathetic to all stories I hear, and I've heard…a lot of them."

Liberty gave a short airy laugh. "Really? You're giving me the 'everybody's got problems' routine?"

Tim just stared at him.

Liberty glared back. "Well you're loyal at least. Puts you one ahead of a lot of guys I know."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Tim straightened his gold suit. "Now, if you'll forgive me, I have a game to run."

He left Mr. Liberty standing against the wall, looking angry and pensive.

* * *

The café closed at two in the morning. Kitty Indiana had known something was wrong since around midnight, but chose to say nothing until everyone was gone. Only by throwing herself into her work had she been able to keep her mind off of it for those two torturous hours.

Around eleven Annie had phoned to tell Kitty that she was at home and feeling ill. " _I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye, I…it just wasn't the first thing on my mind_."

"I forgive you Annie, but can you manage to get back here right around bar close? We've got an urgent matter to discuss."

" _Yes, I'll be there Kitty_ ," Annie managed.

The poor girl really did sound ill. She wasn't just looking for an excuse to cut work early.

Annie showed up in casual wear and no makeup, not bothering to take off her brown coat or hat when she entered the café. Her face looked pale and there were dark rings around her eyes, but no one would've guessed anything was wrong by the way Annie carried herself. Her strong composure often astounded Kitty. But then again, the girl had been raised to be a Nazi, trained to witness and commit atrocities without betraying any kind of emotion.

When the guests were all were gone and only a skeleton crew was left closing up shop, Kitty ushered Annie, Tommy Chicago, and Harry Kimitsu into her back room, where she'd first showed them the Bird. After the door was bolted, Kitty turned to face them.

"Gentlemen, Annie, we've got a problem." Kitty marched to the back brick wall, and gestured with mock grace to a gap in the wall, where one brick had seemingly been dug out. "We have a rat in our café."

Harry's eyes bulged. "Is _that_ were you were keeping it?"

"It was, yes. Never mind the Bird, it's probably miles away by now. Some son of a bitch probably hired someone to worm their way in here and take it when our backs were turned. How the hell they figured out where it was I haven't the faintest idea. All I care about right now is finding that rat."

"And then making him tell us where that Bird went." Tom said.

Annie glanced at him. "What were you planning to use that money for, if you don't mind my prying?"

"Well if you _must_ know, I was hoping to use my share to make my big break to Mexico. I got a few blotches on my record up here, and I'd like to get away from the country as soon as I can."

"You have a car, don't you?" Annie asked.

Tom scoffed. "I still need something to fall back on, until I can find work down there. I don't mind sleeping in my car but some food and an occasional shower would sure be nice!"

Quietly, Harry said, "I was gonna give some of mine to my parents."

Annie shifted in her coat. "I was hoping on a little wardrobe expansion myself." She turned back to Kitty. "Do we have any suspects?"

"As a matter of fact Annie," Kitty folded her arms. "Your new boyfriend, Mr. Liberty, was asking me about that Bird. He claimed it belonged to him."

Annie's blue eyes moved thoughtfully. "But why would he ask you about it if he could already find it himself?"

"I've asked myself that same question. Which is why he's not the only one on my suspect list. That statue's well known enough, at least among archeology buffs. When Mickey Kazon stole it from that museum it was in all the papers. For all we know half the crooks in California are on the lookout for it."

"Those two new guys!" Harry suddenly exclaimed.

Tom nodded, folding his arms. "Ear-boy and Muttonchops. We don't exactly trust them, do we?"

"I certainly don't." Kitty said. "They're the other two on my suspect list."

Tom squinted at her. "And we're just letting them get away?"

Kitty cocked her head at him. "You're the one who's supposed to drive them home tonight, aren't you Chicago?"

"I'm supposed to. But if I was them and I'd stolen the Bird, I'd have called a cab and booked it!"

"We just passed them on the way in here, didn't we?" Harry said. "They were helping put away the tables."

"They still might leave now while we're talking," Tom pointed out.

"They're still here." Annie's eyes hardened, as she listened with her remarkable hearing. "I can hear them now. They're at the bar talking to Mr. Lonzak about Mickey Kazon's murder. Wait—" She blinked. "Excelsior just said something about leaving soon…going by the car to wait for you, Tom."

"How do you do that?" Tom sounded exasperated.

"I've told you Tom, Borges disease has its advantages. Not that they're worth—"

Kitty's hand went up. "We're getting off the subject. The point is, we have three suspects here. And lucky me, I've got three people here who I trust. I think you can take Mr. Liberty Annie. Find him, feed him some romantic story about how you can't stop thinking about him, and see if he's got that Bird. Tom and Harry, you two can fight over who gets to investigate Excelsior or Felix."

Tommy shrugged. "I think I like them both fine. Tim's staying with Felix and his wife anyway, so why don't we both just stalk the pair together? I'm driving them both home tonight, and you're staying with me of course Harry, so it'll be the four of us in the car. Wait, wait, I got an idea. Since I'm already pretty friendly with them, I can probably get stuff out of them they wouldn't say around other people. How about if you're, say, ten minutes late Harry, because you had to use the loo or call your parents; that way I get over to the car first and strike up a conversation with them."

"Sounds like a plan." Harry shrugged. "I've actually been meaning to give my folks a ring. Though it's a little late now…"

Kitty looked at Harry humorously. "I'm sure they'd love to hear from you, whatever the hour, Harry." She nodded to Tom and Annie. "Let's get to it then! In the meantime, I've got some phone calls of my own to make."

* * *

Tim and Ned waited next to Tom's car, which was parked several blocks away from the café. Most of the street had been parked up all along the café when Tom had arrived. Now of course, the streets were almost empty. Both men smoked cigarettes, as they waited apprehensively.

"It always gives me the spooks," Ned said finally. "Being outside this big empty city at night. What's taking Tom so long anyway?"

Tim exhaled. "Mr. Liberty probably." He had told Ned about how the man had confronted him about the bird statue. "He might have been asking around the café for that silver bird. We of course know that Miss Indiana has it, so she's probably having a discussion with Mr. Chicago and their associates about Liberty's pursuit of it."

"You don't think they suspect us though, do you?"

"I'm certain they don't trust us. But with any luck, Mr. Liberty is just the distraction we—"

 _Click._

Tim froze at the sound of the gun clicking behind his head. Ned likewise stopped in mid-smoke, allowing his joint to tumble out of his mouth.

"So Miss Indiana's got the Bird," the soft voice was Charles Liberty's. "You failed to mention that in our last conversation."

Tim's eyes moved down to the pavement, watching his shadow held at gunpoint by Liberty's, and Ned's frozen next to them. When a forth shadow emerged, Tim—hoping it was someone on his side—chose to distract Liberty by talking.

"Did I then. I must've been distracted by that stamp on your face."

That short sentence gave Tommy Chicago the time he needed to grab Charles Liberty's arm and yank it upward, turning the gun away from Tim. Charles threw Tom off of him, sending the cabby crashing into the pavement. He took aim at Tom, but Tim crashed into him, sending them both to the ground. The gun flew out of Liberty's hand and skidded off into the street. Tim and Liberty struggled for several moments, rolling around the sidewalk punching at each other. Ned was running into the street to fetch the gun. Tom meanwhile joined Tim in his attempt to restrain Liberty.

"I thought I told you two to bring guns!" Tom snapped.

"Miss Indiana checks her employees coats," Tim retorted. "If you're such a cowboy where's your piece?"

Struggling to pin Charles' arm to the ground, Tom growled, "Fell down a sewer. I've been meaning to replace it, but it takes a while to come up with the money."

"Perhaps if you went a few days without whiskey and saved up—"

Tim's eyes bulged, as Liberty kicked him between the legs. Tim lost his grip on Charles, who managed to pull his hand free and punch Tommy in the nose. (Again.)

Charles pushed himself up just in time to see Ned returning from the middle of the street, with the gun. A cab suddenly blurred past. Ned stopped just in time. By the time the car had passed, Charles had grabbed Tommy (still holding his bloody nose) and pulled him in front of him, daring Ned to shoot.

"Go ahead!" Charles shouted at Ned. "Shoot, if you think your aim's good enough!"

"Low Chuck," Tommy coughed through his bloodied pug. "Real low."

A wealthy couple walking down the sidewalk stopped at the sight of the brawl, and saw Ned's gun. The blond wife grabbed her face and screamed, while the husband threw up a hand dramatically and expressed his shock at the scene. Tim Excelsior took advantage of the loud distractions, and pressed his first two fingers to Charles' neck. Charles lost his grip on Tom, his face contorted in pain. Tom and Ned both stared, as Charles sank to the ground unconscious.

Panting, Tom said, "You gotta teach me that!"

"Is that some kind of martial arts move?" Ned asked.

Tim blinked. "I'm not sure." Shifting his eyes, he added, "It's a trick I picked up."

It had come second-nature to Tim, in that moment. But now, he was just as surprised as Ned or Tom. Where had that come from?

Tom groaned. "Okay," he looked back at the club. "I better update you guys, before Harry finishes phoning his folks. Someone stole the Bird. Kitty Indiana had it hidden in her back room, and someone found it. From what I just overhead here, I'm guessing the thief ain't Chuck. Was it your two?"

Ned and Tim shook their heads.

"Well Miss Indiana thinks it's one of you three." Tommy gestured to Tim, Ned, and Charles' unconscious body. "She sent me and Harry to shadow you and find out. Annie's supposed to spy on Chuck."

"So," Ned's face fell, "The Bird is gone?"

"For the moment. And since no one here has it, I haven't a goddamn clue who does. But here's what I'm thinking; if we can give this clown," Tom nudged Charles with his foot, "to Indiana as a suspect, she'll be busy trying to figure _his_ game out, and that'll give us time to—"

Harry Kimitsu came running around a corner, his opened trench coat flying behind him.

"What the hell happened?" Harry stopped and stared down at the unconscious man on the pavement.

Tom grinned. "I got an early Christmas present for Miss Indiana!" Tommy nodded over towards his car. "Why don't you open my trunk and," he mimed tying a bow, "get some ribbon?"

* * *

At almost two-thirty in the morning, Kitty Indiana was finishing up a very important phone call, when Annie and Tom reentered the sitting room.

Annie cleared her throat. "Miss Indiana, Tom—"

"I'm on the phone Annie, for heaven's sake! I'm sorry Senator, can you repeat that please?"

Senator Marseilles all but screamed through the line: " _I said, I will wait no longer than a week to bid on that statue. After that you can find other interested parties. And you can tell my good-for-nothing son that allowing him to simply leave the state and work for you, rather than turning him in to the authorities myself, is the last gift I'll ever give him_."

Kitty glanced over her shoulder at Annie and Tom in the doorway. Tom's jaw was clenched, and it looked like the fists in his pockets were too. Tom knew that Kitty worked for his father. His father had been a longtime "associate" of Kitty's, and had basically offered her his son like a sacrificial lamb, when Tom needed to disappear.

" _I hope I've made myself clear!_ " the senator snarled.

"As crystal." Kitty said.

Senator Marseilles slammed down the receiver.

Kitty timidly hung up the phone, and turned to Annie and Tom.

"Alright, what is it. Tom why are you here, I thought you were following Excelsior and Felix." Tom opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "What the hell happened to you?" She gestured to his bleeding nose, tousled hair and scraped face. "You weren't found out that fast were you?"

Tom's hands rose diplomatically. "Things were already out of hand when I got there. Why don't you two ladies just come with me, I wanna show you something. I think you'll like it."

"You found the Bird?" Kitty asked dryly, as they followed him down the staircase.

"Not exactly. I might have the next best thing though."

"I don't want the 'next best thing,' Chicago!" Kitty snapped.

"You say that now."

Kitty sighed impatiently, as her driver led them outside. Tommy's car was parked in front of the café. Tim, Harry and Ned stood waiting casually for Kitty and Annie. Tim had even more bruises than Tom, yet somehow his hair and golden suit looked like they'd hardly touched the ground.

"You ladies ready?" Tom sauntered over to his old car, and popped opened the trunk. "Merry Christmas!"

Annie and Kitty peered inside. Charles Liberty lay on his side, hogtied and gagged, with his arms bound behind him. He was breathing heavily, but he wasn't struggling. He looked like he'd taken as bad or worse of a beating as Tim and Tom. A couple locks of his black hair had tumbled over his face. His jacket and suit coat were gone, leaving him in his white suit shirt. He probably could've been contained just by his wrists and ankles, but Tom, Excelsior and Felix had added some wrappings around his knees and torso, perhaps to add insult to injury, or maybe just to use up the rope.

Kitty raised one eyebrow.

Annie placed a hand on her hip, "That _is_ a nice Christmas present, Chicago."

Charles looked at her dryly, then back at Kitty and Tommy.

Kitty slowly cocked her head. "Well this is no way to treat a guest. Let's get him to the lounge."


	10. It Had to be You

Amelia Jenkins had been dreaming about Mars. She'd been racing her sister down their favorite slope on Olympus Mons, their sled-cars decorated for Christmas, when she'd hit a bump that literally shook her awake. Now she lay in bed, looking around the familiar decor of her lover's quarters on Voyager. The Guadalupe holo glowing on the wall; the potted Talaxian plant; the decoratively carved spear he'd made, while the crew had been stranded on that wilderness planet four years ago, leaning against one corner by the bed.

Amelia Jenkins and Miguel Ayala had been spending enough nights at each other's quarters that they now had changes of clothes saved in the replicators, to avoid the hassle of packing for spontaneous nights. She emerged from the bedroom in a short sleeved shirt and loose pants, to find him dressed similarly. Miguel sat at his table before an opened monitor, sipping coffee.

"How long you been at that Miguel?" Amelia asked.

The security guard glanced at her. His black hair was disheveled, and his eyes told her he hadn't slept.

"Since you dozed off, basically," he replied.

She took a seat at the table and glanced at the monitor. "You're reading about Seska."

"Yep."

Amelia made an attempt to smooth her own unruly blond hair. "I knew all the Maquis hated her—us Starfleets do too come to think of it—but I've never seen you act like it was something personal. Is it because of what she did to Chakotay?"

"Chakotay," Miguel confirmed, "And Tuvok, and B'Elanna. And everyone, I suppose."

"Ironic," Amelia said, "the one Maquis who wound up seeking revenge on Tuvok for spying on them was the one who was actually on his side. Cardassia and Starfleet I mean."

Miguel made an acknowledging sound. "I was pissed when I learned Tuvok was a spy, but I still trusted Chakotay, so when he told me to serve under Tuvok I didn't question it. And oddly enough, I liked Tuvok better as my security chief. I guess he made a better Starfleet than Maquis. Todd and me used to make fun of him behind his back—him and Janeway and Chakotay, the aliens we tangled with..."

Amelia grinned. "And everyone else thought you two were just a pair of wax statues with phasers."

Miguel finally smiled, but it didn't last. "Tuvok helped me with…with being separated from my boys. Since he was in the same boat." He leaned over, resting a temple on one fist. "He didn't show it Amelia but Seska hit him almost as bad as Chakotay. Tuvok didn't like that he'd let her get through the cracks. And I'd _known_ Seksa all this time, and I was supposed to be helping Tuvok keep the ship safe."

Amelia opened her mouth to offer some clichéd words of comfort, but stopped herself. She settled instead for reaching across the table to take his hand. Miguel accepted it, but it did little to improve his mood.

Unlike most people, Miguel's voice became quieter when he was exceptionally angry. " _Every time_ that spoon-head did something to someone—Chakotay, or when she stuck Tuvok and Tom in that booby-trap program—I felt like I'd let Chakotay and Tuvok down. She was B'Elanna's 'best friend' too, and friendship's been hard to come by for B'Elanna."

Amelia knew Ayala felt immensely protective of a lot of the "problem crewmembers," like B'Elanna and Seven.

Glancing at the monitor she asked, "So what're you doing now?"

"Trying to figure out her...thought pattern, I guess. If she wants revenge, why the hell trap the senior staff in a historical program? Why not just blow up the ship? And what you said back at the meeting, when we were discussing 'Insurrection Alpha:' why take the credit herself for trying to kill Tuvok, instead of pinning it on someone whose reputation would actually sway ship opinions? Why impregnate herself with Chakotay's DNA?"

Amelia shrugged. "To make Culla more pissed at Voyager, more bent on defeating us?" she sighed. "But of all ways to do that...the baby trap?"

"I've been a talking lot about Seska to the Doctor lately." Ayala said. "Apparently there's a mental disorder among Cardassians that he suspected her of having, but never got the chance to properly test her for."

He pulled up a new file on his monitor and leaned back, giving Amelia the chance to read.

"Rankall's Disorder," Amelia read in a mutter. After skimming the page she mused, "Sounds a _tiny_ bit like Borderline Disorder—my cousin on Mars has that, I think I've told you." Miguel nodded. Amelia folded her hands under her chin. "When Tara explained it to my sister and me, she said it often felt like she didn't know who she really was, like her core identity—her opinions and her interests— _literally_ depended on who she was around."

"But at least your cousin gets help. 'What I understand, Cardassians consider mental illness a taboo, never talk about it. Brings shame to the family or something."

"That might explain why so many Cardasssians are out of their trees," Amelia realized. "Imagine having to keep something like that a secret from everyone, and always being on missions away from your home planet where you can't get to a doctor or…"

Miguel was nodding. "I'll bet Cardassians with Rankall's make the best spies. It just explains everything about Seska. Why she was in such a hurry to get home. And why she kept getting sidetracked." He subconsciously ticked off with his fingers. "She goes for revenge on Tuvok while she's in Bajoran Maquis mode; she impregnates herself with Chakotay's… _DNA_ ," he made the quotation gesture with the fingers he was using to keeping tally, "while she's obsessed with him…She probably entered this noir program intending to extract some kind of 'revenge,' and then got engrossed in her new role."

"But this isn't really Seska," Amelia said, "A hologram wouldn't suffer a mental disorder."

"No, but if it's programmed to throw itself into a role as well as its creator," Ayala ran a hand over his unshaven face. "This hologram could be even more confused than the real Seska. And that's saying something."

* * *

Twentieth-Century Earth was as strange to Seska as Bajor had initially been, and she'd thrown herself into it just as easily. Of course, being a hologram, she had many advantages that her creator hadn't. Downloading the ship's database on early Twentieth-Century history into her program in a matter of seconds had made things easier. The real Seska had been gifted in deceit, but had still needed years to prepare for her role as a Bajoran resistance fighter.

When she'd first awakened in the Talaxian raider in Voyager's shuttle bay, just a few months ago, Seska's program at first hadn't even remembered who or what she was. A computer? A starship? But hacking herself into Voyager and tunneling through its computer systems and logs, she'd found the answer, and it was simple. She was a hologram of a Bajoran disguise, worn by an exceptionally brilliant Cardassian mind. She was perfectly confident that she'd never suffer her creator's lifelong identity crisis, since holograms didn't experience chemical imbalances of the brain. Being a hologram simplified everything.

Seska—or Seraphine, as she was beginning to think of herself—clopped down the street in her fashionable heels, clutching a thick fur coat. It was dark out, and the city was aglow. The little attempts these ancient humans made to liven up their dirty crumbling cities with neon signs and elegant fashion held a familiar cute charm. It was like Bajorans trying to connect themselves to superior beings with their earrings. Or Chakotay's adorable attempts to liven up his bland human forehead with facial art. She'd always loved that tattoo; it's sharp curves reminded her of the Eiffel Tower back home.

Seraphine stopped in the middle of the street, squinted, and shook her head. _France isn't "home."_ Bajor was home. No, Cardassia. It was the arched spikes of her home planet's architecture that Chakotay's tattoo had always endearingly reminded her of. But she wasn't a Cardassian, she was a _hologram_ of a Cardassian (disguised as a Bajoran, disguised as a human of the Twentieth Century). "Home" was a database.

She sighed angrily, and briskly continued onward, ignoring the stares from passing holograms.

She reached her hideout within minutes. Having recently become a wealthy widow, "Seraphine" currently lived in a mansion on the edge of the city. In the basement was a hologrid, where Seska could observe her prisoners like a scientist watching Cardassian voles in a maze. Unfortunately, this was the only way she was able to directly keep tabs on her pawns. If she'd been able to transfer herself back into the ship's systems, as a bodiless program, it would be infinitely easier to observe Chakotay, Janeway and the others; but to Seska's displeasure, she'd found that as soon as she'd initiated the interface, she too was stuck in this program. All she could do was make the most of it. Which shouldn't be too hard.

Her heels echoed through the lobby of the empty mansion. Servants were minimal; Seska had exhausted most of the holographic population of this program on characters serving to manipulate the Voyager officers, and populate the streets. And that was just as well; dealing with imbeciles, hologram or flesh, was something she liked having a break from at the end of the day.

"Seraphine, I thought you'd never get here."

Curse it all, she'd almost forgotten.

Seska stopped in the foyer and turned to see her Nazi "ally," smoking a long cigarette in an armchair, fishnet covered legs crossed.

"Bruna, I almost forgot we'd agreed to report in." Seska threw off her fur coat. "How's little Annie?"

"Impressive." Bruna took a drag from her long cigarette. "She gave me a call just a few minutes ago, claims she's got the Bird for me in a safe. Did your agent even get close?"

"Naturally not." Seska scoffed. "Charles could easily have gotten the location of the Bird out of Kitty Indiana by now. He has the skill, experience and intelligence to do what has to be done, everything except the will. Why do we Cardassians always have to fall for such weak species?"

Bruna stared at Seska, cocking her head slowly. "Is that Shakespeare?"

"Yes." Seska began lighting herself a cigarette, even though she wouldn't be able to feel or taste it. She enjoyed watching the smoke curl in the air. "Torres would've made a _fine_ Cardassian," she ranted on, knowing the hologram wouldn't understand a word she was saying. "Her strength and temperament coupled with that intelligence, I'm telling you, she was born the wrong species. She could've gone far as one of my kind."

Bruna smiled. "You know Seraphine, I always get the sense you've got more up your sleeve than you claim. You're not really in on this because you're loyal to the Nazi Regime."

"No," Seska blew out a smoke ring, watched it float serenely through the air. "But I admire you. A rare breed of humans with their heads screwed on straight."

* * *

Annie cursed herself for her hastiness earlier that evening. The Bird was in a safe now. She'd called Bruna Rike to tell her where she'd left it, and then hung up without saying goodbye. Annie had been hoping to a lid on things, keeping Bruna from blabbing about her and Kitty, and having the cops on both of them. Annie may have saved herself and Kitty, but she realized she'd also opened up a new can of worms. She should've known that Charles and the two new workers were here for the Bird. Of course she'd suspected it, but she'd never have guessed they'd all begin brawling over it that very night. How could she have? What were the odds?

They waited until Kitty had dismissed all of the other workers to haul Charles into the café. Kitty had Tom and Tim dump him into a chair at one of the tables, leaving him bound and gagged. Kitty then pulled over a chair opposite Charles, and casually lit herself a cigarette. Annie stood behind Kitty, doing her best to look like she had no interest in any of this. Tim, Ned, Harry and Tom stood around the table, watching Kitty and Charles silently.

Kitty finally exhaled and asked Charles casually, "So where is it?"

Charles stared at her, then moved his eyes down to his gag.

"I'm sorry. Tom would you mind?" she gestured to the gag.

"Why's it have to be me?" Tom sighed.

"Well you're the one who insisted on wrapping him up like a papoose for transport."

Charles shot her a look.

Tom gave Charles a pat on the shoulder. "Take it easy." He untied the gag and dropped it onto the table.

After Charles finished stretching his mouth, he glared at Kitty, and said, "Where's what."

With her cigarette, Kitty gestured up in the direction of her sitting room. "My statue."

Charles eyes jumped from her to Tim and Ned. "I thought I heard _them_ say that _you_ had it."

Kitty looked up at her two new employees.

Tim Excelsior looked down at her and said calmly, "I'm not certain what 'statue' we're discussing. But if this is that 'bird' you two were arguing about earlier, while you were dancing, I had assumed from your conversation that you had it, Miss Indiana."

Charles stared up at Tim in disbelief. "I didn't see you anywhere near us when we had that conversation!"

"Well you said it loudly enough for half the café to hear you," Tom challenged.

Tim and Tom looked at each other, just for a second. Charles stared at them suspiciously, then made a dismissive face and turned back to Kitty.

"Look," Charles argued. "If I had the statue would I have stopped to pick a fight with these two before making my getaway?"

Kitty exhaled her smoke. "You might if you were causing a distraction for a friend who was stealing it."

"I came here alone! When during this entire night did you see me with anyone else?"

Harry folded his arms. "How about when you were cozying up to Annie."

Playing along, Annie looked at Charles accusingly. The hurt look on his face stabbed even worse than it had in the coffee shop.

"All I know," Kitty dabbed her cigarette in the ashtray, "Is that you show up here tonight, you want my Bird, I won't give it to you, and the next thing I know it's gone. Now what would you call that Mr. Liberty?"

"Karma."

They glared at each other for several seconds.

"I'm tired," Kitty finally croaked. "It's almost three in the morning. How about if we all grab a few hours of sleep and pick this conversation back up in the mor— _later_ in this morning?"

Tom laughed. "Who's driving Chuck home?"

"Are you willing to put him up for the night, Mr. Chicago?" Kitty asked humorously.

Tom looked like she'd just suggested he eat a bowl of live centipedes.

Kitty became somber. "Joking aside, we're all spending the night here." She said it like an order. "I can't say it'll be very comfortable. But at least you'll be getting a room to yourself, Mr. Liberty." She gave Charles a friendly wink.

* * *

After chasing two late-night lovers out of the storage closet, they dragged Charles, chair and all, inside, and locked him in. Tom wrinkled his nose as Gaunt Gary and Ms. Templeton hurried out of cafe, clothes disheveled, Gary covered in the seventy-something-year-old widow's lipstick; but from everyone else's reaction, it seemed this sort of thing was commonplace at the Queen's Cabin. Once Charles was locked up and the two love birds were gone, Kitty had the group return to the table.

"So now what?" Tom whispered.

Keeping her voice down, Kitty replied, "Now, we're going to play an old game my father liked to call 'Good Cop, Bad Cop."

Tom eagerly raised his hand. "Dibs bad cop!"

"You're exactly who I had in mind Chicago." While Tom grinned proudly, she added offhandedly, "You'll fit the part perfectly, without doing any real damage to our prisoner." Tom's smile faltered. "Harry, you can help him. Annie, I assume you wouldn't mind putting your performance skills to good use tonight?"

Annie arched her good eyebrow. "Not at all."

"So how's this work?" Harry asked. "Tom and me smack him around for a bit, then Annie goes in and tells him how sorry she is and how she can't live without him?"

"Essentially." Kitty said.

"Supposing he's telling the truth," Annie cautioned. "The real culprit could be getting away as we speak."

"You make a damned good point, Annie." Kitty folded her hands under her chin, pondering her next order. "Mr. Excelsior, Mr. Felix, in case you two haven't picked up on this, this statue means a lot to me. You'll both be rewarded handsomely if you help me track it back down. What say you two do some antique hunting tomorrow; if you get any leads, you'll give me a ring."

Tim frowned at her. "The culprits would surely be headed out of the state by now, if not the country."

"Not necessarily. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight."

Ned Felix asked innocently, "How do you know we won't just take the statue for ourselves if we find it?"

"Because I'll kill you if you do." She waved them away. "Go now, and phone me when you've got a lead."

Ned looked awkwardly at Tom, who had originally been their ride home.

Tim turned to Ned and said plainly, "The subway."

Ned opened his mouth in a silent _Oh_ and nodded.

"The subways run this late?" Harry asked, to no one in particular.

"I'm gonna make some more phone calls," Kitty said, as if thinking out loud. "Some of my associates might be able to help us track that statue down." She rubbed her temples. "I could use a bit of sleep though. But I'm afraid if I let myself doze I'll wake up and it'll be—oh are they gone?" She looked at a window near the door, watching Tim and Ned heading down the street. "Good." She pushed herself up. "I don't trust those two any more than Mr. Liberty."

Tom, Harry and Annie watched her hurry up the stairs to her sitting room.

Tom looked back to the door Tim and Ned had just left through. "So, she just sent Excelsior and Felix…"

"On a wild goose chase," Harry finished. "To get them out of the café. She's probably phoning someone to tail them right now."

Tom nodded slowly.

Annie's gaze lingered on Tom for a moment, before turning back towards the staircase. The door to the sitting room was closed, but with Annie's inhuman hearing, she had no trouble eavesdropping. She heard Kitty pick up the phone and dial.

After a couple rings, a soft male voice with a Southern accent answered. "H'lo?"

"Mr. Gardener," Kitty said cordially. "I need you to tail a couple people for me."

* * *

"Mr. Excelsior," Ned asked, as they made their way down the silent street, "Do you find it at all odd, that Ms. Indiana is trusting us so easily?"

"Obviously she does not trust us." Tim said. "She was trying to get rid of us." He glanced over his shoulder.

"Would you stop doing that?" Ned exclaimed. "You're making me nervous!"

"Indeed…" Tim grabbed Ned's shoulder and pulled him down, behind a parked car.

After a moment, Tim peered up through the car's windows. Ned tried to follow his gaze. He was staring at an alley across the street. The alley was momentarily lit up by the headlights of a passing car. Standing between the two old buildings was a tiny man, staring straight at them with large unblinking eyes. He looked like a hobo, with his battered trench coat, long tattered scarf, and newsie cap. His bulbous eyes seemed to be completely black, irises and all. Tim would never forget that face. _Jon Gardener_. The criminally insane murderer he'd caught in New York, and sent to an insane asylum, only for him to escape, sending Tim spiraling into depression. The man described on the radio, suspected in the killing of Mickey Kazon.

Tim quickly ducked back below the car's windows, and Ned followed.

Ned whispered, "Is that—?"

"Jon Gardener."

"You know him, uh, personally?" Ned asked, trying to mask his fear with irritation.

"I'm afraid so," Tim dared one last peek through the car windows. "I came to know him quite well before I caught him."

Ned joined Tim at the window. Gardener was now leaning against a street lamp, beating out his cap.

"You think he's seen us?" Ned asked.

"I'm certain he has." Tim whispered. "We need to find a route out of this neighborhood."

Ned nodded, and smacked Tim's arm. "Follow me."

* * *

Charles sat in the dark for maybe twenty minutes. When the closet door finally opened, it was Tom Marseilles and his friend Harry who entered. The women were nowhere in sight. That alone told Charles that it was interrogation time. Tom swaggered in and yanked the chain for the closet's bare light bulb. Charles sighed, as the two young men circled him, doing all they could to look intimidating.

Trying not to roll his eyes, Charles said, "You do realize I get punched for a living, right?"

Tommy landed a blow to his chin that left Charles with a bloodied lip. "Really."

This was going to be a long night.

Sounding more bored than anything else, Charles snapped, "Marseilles, you know I don't have your statue."

"Well, statue or no statue, we've had a bad night, and Harry and I could use a punching bag."

Tom's friend—Harry—nodded, and said threateningly, "We have ways of making you talk."

Tom and Charles both froze, then stared at Harry, like it was the stupidest thing either of them had heard all night. Harry's face fell, into a silent _what_?

* * *

Ned took Tim back the way they'd come. Just when the Queen's Cabin was in sight, he suddenly led Tim sharply across the street, and through a thin alley. From there, it was a maze that made sense only to Ned. They finally reached a Subway entrance, and Ned urged Tim down the steps.

"Felix," Tim hissed, "He's still after us! I can see—"

"Come on!" Ned hissed back. "Trust me!"

Tim did not like the idea of entering a subway station with a serial killer in hot pursuit. But he had no better ideas, and Ned hadn't failed him yet.

They quickly bought their tickets from the half-asleep clerk, and pushed through the turnstiles. Even at this hour, there was a sizable crowd in the subway. They shoved their way past annoyed pedestrians, taking off through the labyrinth of tunnels. Tim looked over his shoulder, and saw Gardener a ways back, trying to move through the sea of people. They turned a corner, and Ned motioned for Tim to stop.

Ned pressed a finger to his lips. Nervously, Tim glanced back at around the corner. Gardener was gaining on him, his large black eyes fixed and determined. The little man was getting more strange looks than Tim and Ned usually did, simply by how he carried himself. Ned suddenly wagged his finger, as if he'd just had a stroke of genius, and pulled Tim along down the hall. Ned led him past several train stops, paying close attention to the signs above the archways, then finally came to a halt. Tim almost crashed into him.

The train in front of them was just about to take off.

They tore out into the tunnel and ran aboard just before the door shut. Through the train's window, they saw Gardener skid to a halt at stare at up them murderously. With one hand, Ned took off his bowler hat and grinned cordially at the psychopath, as the train left the station.

* * *

Three hours after Charles was supposed to call in, Billie decided to do some investigating.

Earlier that day, he had phoned her from a café called the Queen's Cabin, saying he was following a lead on the statue. He was supposed to call back around midnight and never did. She opened her dresser and shoved her clothing aside, uncovering the pistol Charles had given her. After tucking it into her purse, she went down to her apartment complex's lobby and phoned for a cab.

While waiting for the taxi to arrive, Billie noticed that she had mail. Curiously, she opened her mailbox, and sneered when she saw where the letter it had come from: the county jail. She told herself she wanted to tear it up, but instead found herself ripping it opened.

 _Billie, Princess, I should've asked you to lie to the cops for me. But if you even just told them the truth, that I'm too drunk and stupid to kill someone like Mickey Kazon even if I wanted to, I have ways I can help support you and the baby—_

Clenching her teeth, Billie crumbled up the letter and chucked it into the corner. As if his criminal money was what she and her babyneeded. The fact that she was blackmailing her own employer might not put her on any _moral_ high ground, but at least she had the good sense not to involve herself with anyone more dangerous than a sketchy boxer. God knew what kinds of characters and industries her father had been getting his money from all this time.

Billie was mildly surprise to see a woman driving the _Star Shuttle Services_ cab that pulled up in front of her complex. A Hispanic woman grinned at her from the wheel, in a red plaid suit dress with a tiny matching hat that sat at a tilt among swirls of rolled-up black hair. The look in the woman's black eyes said she could give Billie a run for her money in sarcasm and spunk.

"Don't tell me," the female cabby in a low soft voice, "You're out tracking your husband."

"How the hell did you guess?" Billie asked, climbing into the car.

"I'm psychic," the cabbie joked.

When they reached the Queen's Cabin, the café was clearly closed. The curtains on the windows were drawn shut, the neon sign was dead, and the doors were locked. If there were any clues in there, it was impossible to reach them. The cab driver—Suzie, as she'd introduced herself—slowly drove around the building, allowing Billie to search for her "husband."

Suzie suddenly pointed at a parked car. "Hey! What kinda' coat you say your husband was wearing?"

She stopped the cab, allowing Billie to get out and have a look. The sound of Billie's heels seemed to echo through the empty street. Billie pressed herself against the car's window, squinting. The inside looked like a pig style, which had been hit by a hurricane. An alcoholic hurricane. But among the empty bottles, wrinkled clothes, and comic books was a trench coat that was unmistakably Charles,' and not far from it, his suit jacket.

Billie tried not to let her emotions get the best of her. There could be a hundred innocent explanations for this. Maybe Charles had just left his extra layers behind while he went to get some business taken care of. Maybe he'd hocked them in exchange for information. Maybe he'd been robbed, but was still around somewhere unharmed and unconcerned with the loss of a few items of clothing.

She jumped inside when she heard footsteps, and looked over at her cab driver, who seemed equally startled. Billie practically dove back into the taxi and kept low below the windows. She motioned to the confused driver to do the same, and Suzie reluctantly obliged.

"What kinda' people does your husband hang out with?" Suzie hissed, her black eyes bulging.

"I thought you were a psychic," Billie sighed.

From outside, they heard the engine of a car start. They peered up to see the car they'd just been investigating taking off.

"Can you follow that car for me?" Billie pleaded.

"Maybe." Suzie took off her red plaid hat and held it upside-down behind her.

Billie sighed, and rummaged through her purse until she'd found some more bills to shove into the cabbie's hat. Once paid, Suzie took off at full speed.

Suzie did a good job of following the other cab without looking like they were following them. Billie lost track of time, and couldn't tell how long the drive was. But eventually they stopped in a cute country neighborhood. The car with Charles' clothing in it stopped in a gravel driveway. To stay on the safe side, Suzie stopped her cab a few houses away. Billie waited until the two figures that emerged from the car—neither of which had a build that looked like Charles—were inside the house, before she opened the taxi door.

"Should I come with you?" Suzie offered.

"No," Billie said. "This is something I should do myself."

Truth be told, Billie was afraid, but there was no sense putting the other woman in danger. Besides, if something did happen, it would be a better idea to have Suzie hanging back, so she could rap on one of the other doors for help should Billie need it. Clutching the pistol in her purse, Billie hurried across the street. When she reached the house, she carefully tried the front door. Bolted. Alright. Mustering her confidence, she pulled the gun from her purse, and knocked.

A young Asian man opened the door, and froze when he saw the gun. Billie opened her mouth to state her demands, but stopped when she saw who was behind the young man.

Her voice wavered sickeningly. " _Tommy_?"

He was in the middle of taking off his coat, staring at her like a deer in the headlights.

" _Billie_?"

While they both stood dumbstruck, footsteps trampled down a staircase, and a blond woman in a purple nightgown entered the room.

"Tommy," the woman drawled in a soft, playful voice, "What wild stories have you got for me toni—"

She stopped when she saw Billie's gun.

Tom seemed more shocked by Billie herself than the gun she was holding. "Billie what the hell are you doing here?" he pulled his coat back over his shoulders, as if in some unconscious attempt to shield himself.

Billie suddenly remembered what she was here for. Her voice still on the edge of cracking, she said simply, "I'm looking for my friend. Charles Liberty."

Tom's eyes somehow managed to grow even wider. " _Charles Liberty_?"

The Asian man looked at Tom. "She knows Charles Liberty?"

"Apparently," Tom's eyes fell to Billie's stomach. " _Very_ well from the looks of it."

Billie's eyes flared, and her rage fired. "Don't you play stupid with me Tom. You _know_ this isn't Charles.'"

The color drained from Tom's face.

"Tom," the blond woman asked, with a low edge in her voice. "Who is she?"

Billie shifted her gaze to the other woman, but kept the gun on the men. "Do yourself a favor Blondie," she looked back at Tom, "and get yourself a pet cat. They won't leave you pregnant, they clean up after themselves, and they don't lie."

The blond reacted a bit more dramatically than Billie had expected. She staggered back, shaking her head behind her hand, then turned and ran back up the stairs. The Asian man watched her go, but Tom didn't even glance at her.

"Billie!" Tom shoved past his friend and moved right at her—with her gun still pointed right at him—and grabbed her shoulders. "You _can't_ have thought I knew about this!"

She laughed bitterly. "You can't tell me you didn't even _consider_ this, after all those nights we—" She choked on the lump in her throat. "You're just like my father."

Tom reached to touch her face, and a growl flew from her lips.

 _Literally_ , a growl. Like the sound a bear or a large cat might make. Billie had no idea where that had come from, and wouldn't have believed she'd done it herself if she hadn't felt it in her throat. In any case, it made Tom withdraw his hand pretty quickly. Behind Tom, his friend looked almost more confused than frightened.

Gripping her pistol tightly Billie demanded, "Where's Charles?"

Still stunned, Tom replied, "He's, he's tied up at the Queen's Cabin. I'm sure our boss'll turn him loose, once he tells her where the Bird is."

Billie shook her head. "He doesn't have the Bird. He came to that café to find it."

" _Someone_ found it," Tom snapped. "It was stolen sometime around midnight, after Liberty'd been asking around for it."

"Are you saying Charles would be stupid enough to…"

Tom's friend finished. "To what? Steal the statue and hide it somewhere, until his getaway car arrived?"

It was plausible enough.

"Let me see him," Billie tried. "I'll convince him to give it over. I've got some sway over him."

"Have you now." Tom folded his arms.

"The blackmail kind of 'sway.'" Billy clarified. "You don't think I'd be stupid enough to fall in love again, after what you pulled."

"You don't understand, you don't know anything Billie! Didn't you read my note? I'm a wanted man. If I married you you'd be disgraced, you'd be…"

Billie cocked her head at him, silently screaming, _Really_?

"Okay." Tom began buttoning his coat. "You wanna see Chuck, Miss Indiana probably wants to meet any associates of his. Let's go for a drive. Harry, tell Kaaren we're going back out again."

"I heard you," the other woman sniffled from upstairs. "Be careful."

Tom's friend, Harry, shook his head. "How _does_ she do that?"

* * *

Annie sat in front of her dressing room mirror, waiting for her turn to play the "good cop." She tried and failed to keep herself from thinking about Charles. It was obvious that Tommy Chicago didn't like him, and would enjoy pummeling him. The thought of Charles also getting beaten by Harry, who Annie regarded as adorable and a friend, was even less comfortable. But worst of all was the fact that all of this was for nothing, because _Charles didn't have the Bird._

She closed her eyes, as a strange pain flashed in the back of her head, just for a second. It had been small, but it had stung like a needle. She'd never experienced anything like it before. Was this what a migraine felt like? Or was it a symptom of a new stage in her disease?

The pain didn't return, and after a few moments, she dismissed it as a combination of stress and a sleep-deprived imagination.

It was really the wait that she hated. First Tommy and Harry had to beat up Charles; then they had to give him some time alone, either to make Annie's arrival seem less rehearsed, or to have some psychological effect on him. Kitty had also ordered her not to change her outfit or wash up, in order to give the appearance that she really had been up all night worrying about him. She wondered if Kitty realized that she didn't have to pretend.

When Kitty finally gave her the okay, the sun was staring to rise. By now, Tom and Harry had gone home. Kitty retired to her sitting room, leaving Annie to her assignment. Annie moved carefully through the empty café, as if sneaking past her comrades, and stopped at the closet. She hesitated, then opened the door and slipped inside. The light was off, but with her condition, she could see almost as well as if it were on.

She was startled to see Charles on the floor. He was still tied to the chair, but it had been knocked over onto its side. His eyes were shut. Even in her "night vision," Annie could make out his various injuries. He was bleeding in several places. At first she feared he'd been rendered unconscious from his beating. But his eyes were moving beneath their shut lids, and she saw him silently mutter something in his sleep.

That strange pain returned in the back of her head. She blinked it away. Remembering her mission, she decided not to turn the light on right away.

She knelt beside him and cupped the back of his head, running her hand through his hair. When she did, he mumbled—still asleep—" _Seska_."

In the dark, Annie squinted. She didn't know what "seska" meant, or what language it was.

Half-hoping to wake him up, she asked quietly, "What language is that?"

With his eyes still shut, he moved his head in a weak attempt at a shake. "None…" For a moment he trailed into some indiscernible mumbles. "…even if you…" more mumbles, "… _command codes…Voyager's not coming back for me…_."

"Who is 'Voyager?'" she said, more audibly.

This seemed to shake him out of whatever he was dreaming about, and Charles began to blink awake. His eyes moved around, and she remembered he couldn't see in the dark. But still she didn't turn on the light. Groaning, he tried to move, and found himself restrained. Annie ran a hand through is hair again, and then began to untie him from the chair.

"Annie?" he slurred.

"Not so loud," she said quietly. "I shouldn't be here."

He swallowed, and whispered through his injuries, "Aren't you supposed to 'shush' me, and tell me how sorry you are?"

"I'm not the 'shushing' sort."

She undid the last cord and he fell loose from the chair. After undoing the rest of his bindings, she turned him onto his back and began feeling for broken bones. He winced when she felt his left forearm, and let out a short cry when she touched one of his ribs. She gave his face some more comforting touches. Annie was well-trained in seduction, but it seemed Charles was not as gullible as he looked.

"I don't suppose we could get some light?" he asked, staring up blindly.

"I don't want to attract attention."

"You obviously want mine."

She continued checking for injuries. After finding a few more minor bruises, she pulled an abandoned jacket off a nearby hanger that she knew no one would be coming back for, and folded it into a pillow for him. Gently moving it under his head, she said, "You were talking in your sleep."

"About...?"

"Voyager. Seska."

His face contorted in confusion. " _What_?"

"Seska. That was one word I heard. And 'Voyager,' and something about 'command codes.'"

He looked honestly confused. His eyes moved around the dark room, as he apparently searched his memory for anything related to what she was talking about. "I was a Code Talker in the War." He relaxed against the floor, and repeated, " _Command_ codes?"

"Were you dreaming about the war, maybe? And that 'Voyager' picture with Betty Gable you told me about?"

"Betty Davis." He shook his head. "I don't even remember falling asleep."

Very odd.

Charles stared up at the dark ceiling, feigning disdain, but when she took his hand she immediately felt him squeeze back.

"Charles, I know you didn't take the Bird."

His eyes flicked towards her in the dark. "How could you possibly know that?"

Annie realized that if she told Kitty that Charles was innocent, Kitty would believe it. She believed Annie was capable of worming any information from a man. She could turn Charles loose and get him out of this rat-race for good…unless he insisted on sticking around to find the Bird for himself. Even after Bruna Rike got the statue, she realized, Kitty and Charles and the rest would have no reason not to keep looking for it.

Running her hand through his black bangs, Annie asked offhandedly, "How badly do you have your heart set on that statue?"

Charles settled against his pillow and closed his eyes. "Badly enough that you're not going to talk me out of it."

"There must be some other way to save your tribe." He looked at her sharply. "I have very good hearing," she explained. "Who's threatening your land? Whose trying to buy you out?"

His eyes still shut, he finally replied, "Old girlfriend." He shifted on the floor, then added, "She's a bit of a bitch."


	11. Failsafe

The Doctor had not deactivated once since being kicked out of the program all those days ago. Holograms weren't designed to feel fatigue, but he was definitely experiencing exhaustion on some level or another. He was used to being deactivated for a few hours a day at least, just to get a break from consciousness and to keep his program refreshed; and even when he was activated, he'd become accustomed to some leisure time.

He was pouring over the scans of the senior officer's brain patterns again, when Naomi Wildman's voice came in over the comm.

" _Wildman to Sickbay_."

The Doctor tapped his combadge. "What is it Naomi?"

" _A few things happened in the program you might wanna know about. First, Chakotay was talking in his sleep—well that's not the first thing that happened, but it's the biggest…"_ The Doctor sighed inwardly as the girl rambled on. _"See, he was asleep, and Seven found him. And I heard him say the name 'Seska,' and 'Voyager_.'" That got the Doctor's attention. " _Seven heard it too. She asked him what he was talking about, but when he woke up he couldn't remember_."

"Did it stir anything for Seven?"

" _No. She was just as confused as her character would be_. _She thought he was talking about some old movie_."

Damn.

"Did you say there was more?"

" _Yeah! Tuvok remembered the Vulcan neck-pinch, but he looked confused by it afterwards. It just came on instinct to him. And later on, Billie—I mean B'Elanna—she growled at Tom like a Klingon_."

"Perhaps the brainwashing is beginning to degrade." The Doctor wasn't certain if this was a good or bad thing. This could be a sign that the senior staff was "waking up," or it could mean that their minds were simply cracking altogether. "Keep me posted Wildman. Make a list of everything you see or hear them do that hints to remembering their real lives."

" _Way ahead of ya Doc. I've been taking notes pretty much this whole time. Um_ ," the girl's voice softened, as she asked someone else in Astrometrics, " _Was there anything else_ …?"

" _Yes_ ," Tal Celes's voice came over the comm. " _The visuals are starting to degrade. I'm trying to reroute power from less crucial sources on the ship so we can get a clearer picture, but for the moment, our viewing experience is getting fuzzy_."

The Doctor nodded. "As long as you can still make out which blurs are which senior officers and keep tabs on their life signs, I don't see how it should be a big problem."

"Knock on wood," Naomi warned.

The Doctor sighed in agreement, and rapped his holographic knuckles on his metallic desk.

* * *

The sky was beginning to lighten when Tom, Harry and Billie were nearing the city. Billie told Suzie the cab driver that she didn't need her help anymore, and asked the woman not to mention her to anyone, even paying her a very generous tip to keep quiet. She hoped that hadn't seemed too conspicuous.

Tom, meanwhile, wasn't too concerned about conspicuousness, drinking from his whiskey bottle right there in front of Billie, Harry and all the passing cars, while driving. As they neared a long bridge crossing the river, Tom almost took them right into the railing.

" _Tom!_ " Billie cried out, as he barely swerved back into place.

Tom hiccuped, "Sorry _—_ "

Billie snatched his bottle from him, rolled down her window, and began pouring it out onto the street. In the back seat, Harry rolled his own window down and stuck his head out, to watch the trail of booze sprinkle the road as they cruised onward. Tom looked at Billie as if she'd just killed some small pet of his, but turned back to the road, saying nothing. When she'd finished pouring, she chucked the bottle right over the edge of the bridge, sending it into the river.

"So, Tom," Billie said casually, rummaging through the car's floor and finding another half-empty bottle, "you and Charles were war buddies?"

Tom scoffed. "I think we lost the 'buddies' part after everyone found out the reason I transfered from the Air Fo _—what the hell are you doing_?"

Pouring the next bottle out the window, Billie reported, "Effective immediately, this is a dry ship." She finished dumping the bottle, then tossed it off the bridge.

Tom pleaded, "Billie, have a heart!"

"I will when you will." She began searching for another bottle, and quickly found one.

"Look," Harry said from the back, as Billie emptied the next bottle. "You're together now. Once we get that Bird, we'll _—_ " Noticing that Billie was searching again, he pointed under Tom's seat. She thanked him, and Tom threw him a death glare, as Billie drained bottle number four. Harry continued. "When we get the Bird, we'll have enough money to go someplace where we can all start clean. So why don't you two just kiss and make up?"

"Lips that touch liquor shall not touch mine," Billie declared poetically, letting the bottle shatter onto the road.

Tom snorted. "You were a real Prohibitionist back in Chicago!"

"I'm not sure what you're doing is legal," Harry warned Billie as she began pouring a fifth bottle out.

"You see any cops around here?" she asked dryly.

"Actually yes!" Harry pointed down the road, making both Billie and Tom jump.

Surely enough, a police car was coming at them from the opposite direction, flashing lights. Tom looked around the dark bridge, as if entertaining the idea of trying to flee. They were in the middle of a long thin bridge, with no room to turn around. Tom finally admitted defeat and pulled over, right next to the railing. Two cops stepped out of their car and approached the Buick, shining flashlights.

"Step out of the car please."

As Tom, Harry and Billie climbed out of the vehicle, Tom asked with some pitiful hopefulness, "How fast was I going officer?"

"It's Lieutenant actually," the gray-haired cop said. "Lt. Cavit." He thumbed to his slightly-younger (or maybe just hair-dyed) comrade, who scowled at them. "This here's Officer Green. And what might your names be, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm Mo," Tom said without missing a beat. "This is Larry," he thumbed to Harry. "And—"

Before Tom could finish his prank at the expense of Billie's curly hair, Officer Green cut him off.

"Sir, we had a report from a concerned cab driver about a pregnant woman leaving a house with two men of your descriptions. You fit the descriptions of two fellows named Thomas 'Chicago,'" the cop laughed humorously, "and Harry Kimut—Kimee—somthin' Chinese."

Harry seemed too wearied by their bad luck tonight to care about the racial insult.

Cavit finished for his comrade. "You two are linked to a brawl witnessed on Delta Street around midnight, and you've also been implicated in a recent drive-by shooting. And you," he turned to Billie, "Would your name be Wilhelmina Torres?" When she didn't answer, he continued, "Your father was recently arrested for the murder of Mickey Kazon."

"I know that," Billie said quietly. "I didn't pick my father."

Green glared at her. "But you gotta admit, it looks awful suspicious when the daughter of a murder suspect shows up in the company of two suspected gangsters."

Cavit at least sounded a bit forgiving. "Look nobody's in trouble yet. But we're gonna have to take you all down to the station with us."

Billie nodded slowly, working to hide her panic. "Right…alright…"

Tom's face had gone bone white.

Harry suddenly he asked, "What about the dog? Can Spunky spend the night with us, or can one you take him to my house for me?"

When Harry glanced towards the car window, the two policemen were just stupid enough to follow his gaze. Green squinted and leaned forward, actually looking for a dog.

Harry tackled Green, knocking the cop right into the Buick, and began attempting to wrestle his gun from him.

Tom and Billie were momentarily stunned. But when Cavit reached for his own gun, Billie flipped around and gave him some kind of martial arts chop in the chin that sent him to the ground, and swiped his gun from him, as if this kind of thing was her professional job. Panting, she looked down at the gun, and then at the stunned cop, as if wondering where the hell that move she'd just performed had come from.

Tom could only stand and stare stupidly, while Harry wrestled Officer Green, and Billy looked around the bridge, gun in hand. Cavit remained on the ground, awake but blinking widely, as if his brains were temporarily too rattled for him to do anything.

Tom turned to Harry and the other officer, searching for an opening to join in the fight. Somehow, the wrestling took Harry and Green around to the other side of the car. Green finally smashed Harry's head against the door hard enough to stun him long enough to reclaim his gun. The cop took a few steps back, nearing the edge of the bridge, and aimed his pistol at Harry. Harry reflexively kicked the cop in the middle, sending him tumbling under the railing and off the bridge.

Harry's eyes bulged. Behind him, Billie gasped, and almost dropped her gun.

"Come on!" Tom threw opened the door of the Buick.

Officer Cavit was just pushing himself up when the the car tore off down the bridge, Harry still struggling to get his door properly shut.

Billie was screaming in Harry's ear. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Harry stared ahead blankly. "If the cops got Tom, they'd find out who he was...about the Air Force..."

"You killed a police officer!" Billie exclaimed.

"I didn't mean to! I—"

"Change of plans." Tom cut them off. "We're finding a place to lie low. Chuck'll be fine with Indiana."

Billie continued to glare at Harry, panting frantically. After a few seconds she threw herself against the car seat and folded her arms over her pregnant stomach, staring ahead in disbelief.

* * *

In Astrometrics, the screen displayed a variety of video quality from the holodeck. The grid showing Tom, Harry and B'Elanna was clear as crystal, while the one showing events back at the café was jumping and full of static. The captain was barely even visible for all the white noise clouding her sitting room in the Queen's Cabin. Tal Celes was working furiously to fix the visual, while the Delaney twins were still trying to decode the dampening field around the holodeck. Naomi was typing away at her PADD, while Icheb kept his eyes on the senior officers.

"Every time they're about to converge as a group," Naomi noted, "Something pops up and stops them. If we didn't know it was Seska now, I'd've just thought the program was written by a really lazy author."

"Agreed." Icheb sighed deeply, and pinched his nose-crest. "She's preventing them from confronting each other head-on. She wants to keep them in the dark about each other's whereabouts and motives."

"Typical Seska," Megan Delaney scoffed. "She's trying to manipulate all of them into killing each—"

" _Yes_ , Megan," her twin snapped, "We've figured that one out. Can we just concentrate on finding a weak spot in this program?"

"Don't start fighting," Tal warned. "I'll bet that's exactly what Seska wants!"

"Okay," Naomi changed the subject. "So Billie, Tom and Harry are on the run from the law. Now what're Annie and Chuck up to?"

Icheb glanced up at the quarter of the screen focused on Seven and Chakotay. "Clichéd romantic banter."

* * *

"I'm not leaving that Bird."

"I'm not asking you to."

Annie was leading Charles through the empty café. He limped carefully after her, nursing his cracked arm and ribs. The rising sun cast shadows of the half-closed blinds over them that felt uncomfortably like prison bars. She brought him around a corner and into the coat room, where several unclaimed coats and jackets hung.

"I don't suppose I can get my coat or hat back?" Charles asked sarcastically.

Annie found his old gray fedora and tugged it onto his head like a frustrated mother dressing her kid for school. His trench coat and suit jacket were long gone, probably sill in Tom's car. So she unfolded the coat he'd been using as a pillow earlier.

"It might be a bit roomy," she said, throwing it around him like a cape, careful not to touch his broken arm or ribs. "But it's been here for months. No one's coming back for it."

He smirked as he shrugged into the coat. "How do you know the owner's not—" His grin vanished when he saw the bullet holes in the coat's chest.

Flatly, Annie said, "You need a hospital."

She took him out the back door and helped him wave down a cab. It took a few minutes, but soon enough a _Aeon Rides_ taxi pulled up, driven by a large middle-aged man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He shook out his black bowler hat while Annie helped Charles into the car, and actually did the spit-and-wipe move on its iridescent purple brim. Luckily Charles was too distracted by his injuries to care about his questionable chauffeur. Charles winced as Annie eased him into the seat. The cabby quickly reached under Charles to grab a magazine off the seat before he sat down ( _Scientific American, Issue #42: Einstein's Theory of Relativity)._

Glancing at Charles' injuries, the driver said dryly, "Don't tell me: you need to get out of the city A.S.A.P."

Charles stared at the driver. "Sounds like you've swung by this place before."

"He just needs a hospital," Annie told the driver, paying him. "St. Cochrane's should be closest. Go straight down Grendel Street—"

"I know where the hospital is, you pedantic drone," the cabby snorted, snatching the money out of her hand.

"Come with me Annie," Charles pleaded. "I can get you out of this underworld."

"And into yours?"

Charles' face fell. The cabby gave him a look, as if silently agreeing with Annie.

Annie took a step back onto the sidewalk. "I'll give your office a ring tomorrow afternoon. I assume you'll be out of the hospital by then."

He nodded. "I'm in the phone book."

"Go." She turned to the cab driver. "Now."

As the taxi pulled away, she heard the driver mutter to Charles, "Dames. They'll drive you insane. _Literally_...!"

Once the cab was out of sight, she returned to the café and hurried up to Kitty's sitting room. Annie rapped on the door, almost frantically.

"Be right there," Kitty groaned.

When the door opened, Annie was faced with the dreaded Kitty-in-the-Morning. Kitty blinked through a fatigued eye and her star-covered nighttime patch, dressed in a crinkled white robe. Her hair reminded Annie of the creatures from horror pictures.

Raising her eyebrow, Annie asked, "Up late I take it?"

Kitty rubbed her face. "Too many calls, not enough coffee." She removed her hand from her face and placed it on her hip. "So what'd you find out?"

Annie resisted the urge to swallow, or look to the side. She was a natural when it came to lying to strangers, but she was not used to lying to her mentor. And she had a lot of baloney to sell Kitty right now.

"He doesn't have it." Annie said with conviction. "I doubt he'd even be capable of getting his hands on it. He isn't very bright."

"What makes you say that?"

"You mean aside from the fact that he just marched right in here and demanded the Bird from you, then got into a brawl over it against three of your men, in a street where there could be any number of witnesses? Well, let me think. He tried offering me five-thousand dollars to betray you and join him in his hunt for the statue." Annie's lips turned up in a half-smile. "I asked him what he needed the Bird for so badly if he already had that kind of money, and he just went quiet."

Annie wasn't certain how to turn the subject to her next lie. Now her face faltered.

Kitty looked at her under her eyebrows. "Annie? Are you in love with him?"

Annie found herself asking the same question. "'Love' is such a strong word," she said finally.

Kitty let out a long sigh and looked away.

"He's no threat to us anymore," Annie argued. "Even if he were stupid enough to try ratting us out, who will believe an Indian whose father was a bootlegger for California's most wanted gangster?"

"A thorough investigator perhaps! These coppers aren't all as dim as the movies make them out to be Annie! You of all people should know that."

"I of all people know how often human beings may underestimate each other on the basis of race."

Kitty shook her head. "I don't want him leaving, he knows too much. We're keeping him here until—" She stopped at the look on Annie's face. "Annie, you _didn't_."

"He needed a hospital."

Kitty took a step back into the sitting room, throwing her hands up.

"He was groaning," Annie said quickly, "making all kinds of noises. He would've attracted attention."

"I'm surprised you didn't want to keep him here so you could nurse him back to health yourself."

"I have bigger fish to fry. Which reminds me of the other thing I needed to tell you. I saw the Bird."

Kitty looked back at her sharply. "Now you've got my attention."

"When I sent Charles into the cab," now she allowed herself a swallow. "I saw a car on the other side of the street. There were three men milling around it, they looked like the kind that worked for Mickey Kazon. They opened the car's trunk just for a moment, and I saw it."

"How much of it did you see?"

"The entire thing. From the back angle. I could make out every stone on its tail feathers. I don't know if they saw me or not, but they slammed the trunk shut and took off like a bullet."

Kitty slowly took a seat on one of the sofas. Her voice became hard, almost as if she were testing Annie. Which she undoubtedly was. "Which direction?"

"Northwest. They went straight through that alley between Hrothgar's Meat Market and and Furfly Books, and then turned to the left. That's the last I saw of them."

Kitty's eye and patch turned to the floor, as she apparently thought over her next response. She glanced back at the gaping hole in the wall where the Bird had been hidden hours before. Finally she stood up, and touched Annie's arm.

"You did good tonight Hanson. I'll leave Charles be. You can have your brave, as a reward for a job well done."

Annie tried to look as if she found this choice of wording mildly amusing, rather than infuriating.

Kitty nodded. "Go home and get some rest. Be back here at the usual time."

* * *

As soon as Annie was headed down the stairs, Kitty slowly closed the door and bolted it. Then she picked up her phone and dialed.

"Mr. Gardener? …Forget about Frankenstein and the elf; I've got someone new for you to tail."

* * *

"Really Mr. Excelsior, there's no need for you to come along."

"Mr. Felix," Tim cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief as they walked. "I have no interest in your 'medicine.' If you wish to take morphine like most of us take coffee, that's not my concern, unless I'm paid for it to be my concern. I'm a private detective, not your doctor."

They were strolling through a very sketchy part of town. It was nearing lunch time. After escaping Jon Gardener, they'd grabbed a few hours of sleep at the house, and the following morning Kaaren had informed them of Tom and Harry's departure. Apparently the pair had returned to the house as planned, but then left quickly when an old girlfriend of Tom's showed up pregnant. Ned and Tim had both gotten the distinct feeling that Kaaren was leaving out some important details, but she'd insisted that that was the sum of it. Then she'd said she was tired, from being up all night worrying about her husband, and went back to bed.

"Alright then," Felix said. "What part of going with me to get my 'medicine' interests you, and who's paying you to be interested?"

"I want to talk to your dea—friend, Willy. From what you tell me, he's quite familiar with the criminal underworld of Los Angeles. He might be able to give me some leads on Mr. Gardener."

Ned wrinkled his nose. "You've been talking nonstop about that creep all night. Remember Tim, we're being paid by Miss Marquis to get that statue for her. And you said yourself, we're private detectives, not policemen. What do we care if some cuckoo is on the loose-pan?"

"That 'cuckoo' was following us last night." Tim reminded him. "And I know better than anyone what Mr. Gardener is capable of."

Changing the subject, Ned asked, "That story Kaaren told us, about Tom's old girlfriend showing up…do you feel like she left anything out?"

"She did seem a bit on edge," Tim admitted, putting his glasses back on. "But it must have been quite a shock, to meet an unmarried pregnant woman, made that way by someone Kaaren considers a friend. Particularly for someone as sheltered as Kaaren."

Tim left out the fact that he strongly suspected Kaaren and Tom of having an affair.

"Ned, old pal!"

Willy stepped out of an alley, wearing a grin remarkably similar to Ned's. Willy seemed to have the same skin condition and poor taste in facial hair as Ned, too. He and Ned shook hands, and caught up, while Tim hung back and observed.

* * *

"Wixiban," Naomi pointed at the drug dealer on the screen. "Neelix showed me pictures and told me stories. They were buddies, back when Neelix was living outside the law."

"And here he's Neelix's drug dealer," Icheb mused, leaning one elbow on the railing under the large screen.

The visual display was starting to clear up, at least temporarily. A few grids were still slightly fuzzy or jumped here and there, but for the moment at least, the observers were having no trouble seeing what was going on in the holodeck.

Tal scratched her segmented nose. "So Willy is dragging Ned into his bad habits, just like Wix did that time he and Neelix tried to rob Voyager."

Naomi smirked at her. "I thought the grownups weren't supposed to be listening in on the kids' conversations. Aren't you supposed to be focusing on the hologrid readings?"

"You wanna trade?"

Icheb suddenly nudged Naomi, and pointed up at another grid on the screen.

Naomi followed his gaze, then shook her head. "What?"

"Look at the nurse."

Naomi craned her neck for a better look, and then her eyes widened.

* * *

Charles was not a man who indulged in drugs, but he was enjoying the morphine the nurse had given him. He almost wondered if she'd overdone it. She was no spring chicken, and he wouldn't put it past her to have mixed up his dosage. He felt a bit sorry for her, a woman her age having to work to support herself. He felt like he might melt right into the hospital bed. He was covered up to his neck in a white sheet, hiding his bandages.

The nurse touched his arm in a way that felt a tad too intimate. "How are you feeling?" she asked in a low distant voice.

He opened his mouth to respond, but lost the words. He replied with a sloppy, stoned nod.

He wasn't sure if it was the drugs, but he was finding the woman's make-up very distracting. Charles didn't like to make cruel judgments, but good grief, her make-up was horribly overdone and out of date. That bow-style lipstick and hair-thin "eyebrows" were a style that had died with the Great Depression. Or should have, at least. Her silver hair was yanked into a bun that looked painful.

The nurse left his bed, and headed for a phone that was sitting on a shelf in the tiny room. Even after all the times his boxing career had sent him to the hospital, Charles still wasn't sure what determined who got their own room, and why some had certain accessories like phones. Sometimes he woke up in his own private hospital room, and sometimes he woke up in a long hall lined with beds. This time he had his own room, and apparently it came with a telephone.

As the nurse dialed the number, Charles found something off-putting about her expression. She stared ahead at the window, her eyelids low and a small smile on her lips. Why were the curtains shut?

The person on the other line answered.

"Hello," the nurse said. "I'm a friend of Annie Hanson's. Can you put me through?"

Charles shot up—or tried to. That was when he realized he was strapped to the bed, underneath the sheet. Before he could call out for help, a ball of fabric was stuffed into his mouth, and a gag was being tied on. He knew who was silencing him before he even dared to arch his head back and look. After Seraphine finished tying on the gag, she mockingly "shushed" him and folded her arms on the bed. She was dressed as a nurse, and wouldn't have stood out in the hospital if not for the ridges on her nose. She watched the other woman at the phone with a smile. Charles gave up struggling and slammed his head back onto the pillow, heaving.

He heard Annie's voice come in on the other line.

"Hello Anita," the older nurse drawled. "I found your package at the safe." A pause, as Annie said something indiscernible. "No Anita dear, I'm afraid you're not in the clear. Did you really think you were going to fool me with a tin spoon?"

* * *

On the other line, in her dressing room, Annie felt her heart rate increase.

"What are you talking about?"

" _That lump of clay you left for me, in that public safe,"_ Bruna Rike sneered. _"Did you think I wouldn't check to make sure that the Bird was inside? Did you really think you could just stick any old piece of metal in there and I'd just assume it was the statue_?"

Annie stammered. "I gave you the Bir—"

She stopped, and replayed it in her mind.

She'd found the fake clay bricks in Kitty's sitting room. She'd pulled the entire lump of clay out of the wall. She'd dug into it just enough to see a tiny hint of silver, and assumed—

 _Oh god._

Breathing rapidly, Annie replied, "Kitty didn't tell me she had a decoy."

" _Didn't she now. I wonder why. One would've thought, after all you two had been through, that you'd be trusting each other._ "

Annie suddenly remembered the story she'd given Kitty earlier that day, about seeing the Bird in the trunk of some fictitious gangster's car… Now she was replaying that conversation with Kitty, and Kitty's reaction after Annie had lied to her.

Annie felt as if she were being crushed on both sides between two elevator doors.

" _I'm disappointed in you Annie._ " Bruna said quietly. " _I'll be keeping_ …" Bruna's voice shrank, as she moved away from the phone to ask someone on her end, " _What's his name again_?"

On the other line, Annie heard another woman with a clear sharp voice say, "Charles."

Annie's phone almost slipped out of her hand.

Shaking, she put the receiver back to her ear. On the other end, she could hear Charles muffled voice, apparently trying to shout something to her through a gag.

" _I'll be keeping Charles until you get me that Bird. Get it for me like a good girl. Oh, and if you have any ideas about telling Kitty why you tried to rob her and lie to her, I'll know. I have eyes and ears everywhere. If that happens, I just might forget which medications I'm supposed to administer to my patient. A single dose of the wrong drug can be fatal_."

The mysterious pain in Annie had felt in the back of her head a few hours earlier suddenly returned, full-force. Annie blinked, seeing spots. She felt pain throughout her body, particularly in the areas coated in metal. She gripped the phone and the arm of her chair to steady herself.

The other woman added, " _And don't bother with the police. I've got more than a few of the top officers on my side anyway_." Annie heard the sound of high heels, and woman's voice came right up to the receiver. " _If you think Janeway can beat us with one of her harebrained schemes before we kill your boyfriend, then by all means,_ "

Annie shook her head. "Jane _who_?"

There was a pause. " _Sorry, I was thinking of someone else._ " The woman sounded like she was referring to some kind of inside joke.

Bruna finished, "You have until midnight this Thursday, Anita."

Charles' muffled cries were the last thing Annie heard before the line went dead.

Annie continued breathing heavily, as the pain in the back of her head continued to rise. The phone fell from her hand, hitting the desk, and then Annie's head collided with the floor.

* * *

It was Tal Celes who contacted Sickbay.

"Celes to Sickbay, Chakotay's been captured by Seska and the Queen, and Seven passed out. I'm relaying the last few minutes of the recording to you."

A few moments of silence followed, as the Doctor replayed the footage. When he spoke, the hologram sounded like he was diagnosing a fatal illness. " _Her failsafe_ …"

The Bajoran's brow furrowed. "Her _what_?"

The Delaney sisters swapped a glance.

"Failsafe?" Jenny repeated.

She looked at Naomi and Icheb, who were closer to Seven than anyone else in the room. Naomi just shook her head and shrugged, equally baffled. Icheb was likewise stumped. His green eyes climbed back to Seven's unconscious body on the lower grid, which was jumping back to static again.

" _It's a long story_ ," the hologram said. " _But in short, Seven doesn't always handle emotional trauma well. She could be in as much danger as Chakotay right now. Out of curiosity, where is the Bird statue?_ "

"No clue," Tal said. "The video's been getting buggy again. We're missing entire chunks now. It's a miracle we got Seven's feint."

They signed off the comm., and Naomi and the three women stared at the screen, where half the grids were flickering.

Jenny Delaney drummed her fingers on her console. "If I were Captain Janeway, where would I hide a priceless statue?"

* * *

Kitty Indiana stood in her sitting room, touching up her hair in front of a mirror on the wall. She was kind of getting tired of the pile of curls over her forehead, but she was momentarily out of ideas. What the hell was she doing worrying about her hair for? Her closest associate, Annie Hanson, was betraying her, and she didn't have an inkling as to why.

Annie couldn't have done it because she wanted the Bird all to herself; she'd never been a greedy person. No one on this side of the Atlantic knew that Annie had been a Nazi, and obviously no Nazi that had managed to escape justice would go to America; so she ruled out the idea that someone might be blackmailing Annie with her past. The only thing Kitty could possibly fathom was that it was somehow related to Charles Liberty, because Annie was infatuated with him. It would be a real stretch for Annie to betray Kitty and jeopardize their entire mission over a schoolgirl crush. But she was inexperienced in any relationship beyond shallow seduction. With any luck, her tail Jon Gardener would be able to offer some clues, after following Annie around for a bit.

Kitty rose from the sofa and strode to the counter where the elegant coffeepot sat. She knelt down and opened the cupboard, where she kept her coffee grounds and accessories. She pulled out the extra-large can of Maxwell House coffee, a size designed for coffee shops or restaurants that had to make massive amounts of coffee at once.

She pried off the lid, and sifted through the grounds until she found it. She pulled out the bundle, and untied the string that held on the newspaper wrappings. The newspaper fell away, to reveal the silver, gem-encrusted bird, looking as perfectly polished as it had the day Tommy Chicago and Harry Kimitsu had brought it to her.


	12. Under the Influence

The Doctor checked Seven's life signs one more time before transferring his program to the briefing room. The "backup senior staff" seemed understandably un-enthused. By now, most of them were almost as sleep-deprived as the officers trapped in Seska's program. Vorik's uniform sported the glistening blue stain of a burst gel-pack, that he apparently hadn't found time to clean off. Sam Wildman's hair was falling out of its ponytail, and Jenkins' short gold locks gave the impression that she'd just piloted through a hurricane.

"Were we just here," Andrews mumbled, "Or have I just lost track of time?"

"Both, in all likelihood," the Doctor replied.

"So what's wrong with Seven?" Ayala asked, with an edge in his voice.

Andrews looked equally concerned. The security guards had dealt with Seven of Nine more frequently than most crewmembers outside the senior staff save Icheb and the Wildmans, and some of Tuvok's officers had come to regard Seven almost like a ward they were responsible for.

"Seven's alright, for now," the hologram assured everyone. "Her failsafe device activated, and caused her to lose consciousness. She regained consciousness a few minutes later, and resumed her activities. If she's continuously exposed to such trauma however, this could prove fatal for her."

Jenkins' blue eyes crept up, searched the hologram's face. "So what is this, some kind of Borg implant that short-circuits if she gets too stressed?"

"That's one way of putting it I suppose," the Doctor realized he was still standing, and took his seat at the table. "Seven has a piece of technology in her brain that's programmed to react if she reaches certain levels of emotion. The Collective designed it to catch drones beginning to experience their humanity. Or... _Vulcan_ ity, or _Bol_ ianit...you get the idea."

"And you can't do anything about it?" Andrews looked crestfallen for Seven. "It's one of the implants you can't remove?"

"Actually, I've been working on a way to remove it, but so far Seven's declined the offer."

"Obviously we're running out of time," Ayala concluded. "But the senior officers are starting to get short bursts of their memories back, on the subconscious level." He looked at the Doctor. "I assume this is good for us?"

"Not necessarily," the hologram knitted his brow. "It could be a sign that their brains are falling into disarray. Who knows what order in which they'll regain their memories, or if they'll be able to make any sense of them. By now they're all suffering significant sleep deprivation, and the captain is probably overdosing on her coffee. To say nothing of the drugs Seska and the Borg Queen are pumping into Commander Chakotay."

Jenkins shot the Doctor a look. "That's real morphine? How—?"

The hologram explained, "The same way you can set a holo-program to replicate real food for you, when you go to Sandrine's."

"Hang on, wait," Andrews said, rubbing the back of his aching neck. "So you're telling me that's _real_ alcohol Tom's been swigging this whole time?"

"Well you don't think that stumbling alcoholic motif was an act, did you?" The Doctor replied.

Flabbergasted, Jenkins said softly, "Tom's going to have the hangover from _Hell_ when he gets out."

"Doctor," Vorik said, "I've discussed an idea with the other Vulcans on board. At first none of us were certain it was a possibility, but after thorough research we believe it may work. Earlier this week, Icheb suggested using a Borg interface to contact Seven of Nine, which you ruled out due to the dampening field around the holodeck."

The Doctor nodded. "Among other things."

"Our suggestion is similar. But instead of using Seven of Nine, we would implement Commander Tuvok."

The Doctor reclined curiously. "I assume you're not talking about a mind-meld, since we have no way of getting anyone into physical contact with the senior staff."

"Not directly," Vorik explained. "But Vulcan telepathy need not involve physical contact. I presume most people at this table have heard of the incident aboard the flagship Enterprise, during which Commander Spock telepathically sensed the deaths of four-hundred Vulcans, when the starship Intrepid was destroyed. Vulcans are also able to feel the deaths of close family members and spouses across vast distances. Though we do not necessarily make it obvious, the Vulcans aboard Voyager have maintained a close familial bond throughout this journey. It has been necessary in fact, to keep each other's emotions and behavior in check."

Andrews gave a weak laugh. "That just might be the first time I've ever heard a Vulcan admit to actually having emotions!"

"Repressing our emotions is imperative, to the point that some of us will outright deny their existence, in order to discourage other species from attempting to provoke them."

Andrews's face straightened. He muttered to the Vulcan, barely audibly, "Sorry mate."

"So," the Doctor was looking at Vorik dubiously, "You're going to make an attempt to send Tuvok some kind of telepathic message?"

"In essence," the young Vulcan replied. "It would require a mass mind-meld between the five of us." By this he was referring to the other Vulcans on Voyager.

Samantha Wildman brushed some stray locks behind her ears. "A 'mass min—' you're saying that Vulcans can meld with _multiple_ minds at _once_?"

"Tuvok did it," the Doctor reminded her. "When Captain Janeway entered Unamatrix Zero. He linked Seven's mind with the captain's in order to allow the latter to enter Unimatrix Zero. Unfortunately my database doesn't contain much information on Vulcan mind melds, so I can't say I've ever heard of melding with more than two individuals."

"It is not commonly done." Vorik said. "But it is possible. The five of us will join our minds and call out to Tuvok. From there we can instruct him to locate the holo-grid, and shut down the program manually."

All faces around the table lit up, except the Doctor's.

"Maybe some of you haven't noticed," the Doctor said carefully, "But Commander Tuvok isn't exactly the most… _stable,_ of all the senior officers."

"I am opened to other suggestions." Vorik challenged.

Amelia Jenkins shook her head at the Doctor. "Even if Tuvok does loose a few of his marbles, it can't be any worse than some of the things you've cured him of before."

"That's easy for you to say," the hologram huffed. "Tuvok's just the icing on the cake. Sometimes I feel I can't go a week without treating someone on the senior staff for hallucinations or alien possession."

Jenkins looked away dismissively, but the Doctor ranted on.

"I swear, they all draw from a _hat_ to see who's going to mind-meld with a psychopath, download the ship's database into their cortical node, flip on a family 'crazy gene,' purchase a possessed shuttle craft—"

"Doc," Ayala cut him off.

"Pardon me." The Doctor muttered. "But you can't blame a hologram for feeling frustrated."

Ayala nodded to Vorik. "How soon can you and the other Vulcans be ready?"

"Just a moment!" the Doctor objected. "I haven't given medical clearance for this!"

"Alright," Ayala said. "How soon can you have that clearance for them?"

"I'll have to examine all parties to ensure there will be no complications. I should have that done by 0700 hours."

"Get started." Ayala said.

* * *

Aside from Vorik and Tuvok, there were currently four other Vulcans aboard Voyager. T'Vora, a red-uniformed operations officer and former Maquis, had received an extensive checkup from the Doctor to ensure that no complications would arise from her being one-forth Romulan, or from the mind-control she and the other Maquis had recently been subjected to a few months ago. Sakornik, a petite science officer who human shipmates said looked Asian, was in perfect health and given clearance immediately. T'Lei, a Vulcan/human hybrid whose feathery blonde hair often hid her ears, was likewise a go. T'Rell, the dark-skinned security guard who wore her hair longer than most Vulcans, was still suffering minor symptoms from Neelix's latest culinary disaster, but none that would complicate the meld. After medical clearance was given, the five Vulcans gathered in sickbay.

Vorik briefed them all on the situation, and Tuvok's character in the holo-program. From there, they'd agreed upon the message they would communicate to him.

The five Vulcans stood in a circle, each placing their first two fingers on the forehead of their neighbor. The Doctor thought it looked like some goofy séance. He had genuine respect for his Vulcan shipmates; they were often far more sensible than anyone else on board. But he'd never been a fan of this mind-meld mumbo-jumbo…especially when it involved Mr. Tuvok…

* * *

Timothy Excelsior had all but forgotten about his assignment to find the statuette for Brigid Marquis. Today he was obsessed with Ron Gardener. He and Ned sat in the kitchen, listening while Kaaren—for the third time—relayed the story of what she'd witnessed the night before, when Tom and Harry had taken off with a woman claiming to carry Tom's child.

Finally given Kaaren a break, the detectives were now listening to reports on the radio. The reporter was describing three fugitives last seen crossing a bridge, where a police officer had apparently been murdered. And from the sound of it, the pregnant woman was the daughter of one of the suspects of Mickey Kazon's murder.

"I'm not surprised about the pregnant girl," Ned said, dunking his doughnut in some coffee. "But Tom's just too smart to kill a police officer."

Tim glanced at him over his glasses. "It sounds like it was an accident. And it might just as well have been the woman or Mr. Kimitsu who did it." Tim laced his fingers under his chin. "They won't get far."

"Why not?" Ned asked. "Tom's the cleverest driver in the city."

"And the most careless when it comes to actually caring for his car. I observed yesterday that it required an oil change, and Chicago said that, as usual, he was 'short on money.'" Shifting topics slightly, Tim said, half to himself, "The pregnant woman is John Torres' daughter. If I can prove her father's innocence, it would be a step closer to catching Gardener."

"Who?" Kaaren asked, tying a fresh pair of blue ribbons into her curls.

Ned just shook his head at his wife, silently begging her not to bother asking. "Tim, we've been through this. Our mission is to get a statue for your client, Brigid Marquis."

"That 'mission' was a gig I took because I needed money. This is infinitely more important. Gardener is a danger to society, and I failed to contain him once. He's my responsibility." Tim rose from the table. "I won't ask you to join me this time Ned. Spend some time with your wife."

Ned reluctantly agreed. "What if Miss Indiana calls, what should I tell her?"

"Tell her I've gone to a drug store to pick up my _medicine_ ," Tim said dryly.

* * *

Tim hadn't known Tommy Chicago long, but knowing the man's driving style and tastes, coupled with Kaaren's report that he was headed back towards Kitty Indiana's club before the incident with the cops on the bridge, it didn't take long for Tim to track where the three fugitives had ultimately ended up.

He found Wilhelmina Torres standing outside an auto-shop, in a rather pitiful disguise. The woman was huddled in Tommy Chicago's battered trench coat, with her forehead hidden beneath a poorly wrapped headscarf. Tim came up behind her, eyeing her reflection in the window to ensure he had the right woman. He'd anticipated that she'd hide her obvious forehead, so he'd been very careful to get the most detailed description of the woman's face and build and voice from Kaaren as possible.

"A fine day to shop for car parts, Miss Torres."

She looked up at him sharply, her large brown eyes traveling his pointed eyebrows and ears. "Who are you?" she whispered.

"A private investigator, and a colleague of your friends Chicago and Kimitsu. You're not in trouble." At her expression he added, "With me anyway. Miss, I'm working on a case involving a man who I believe to be the real murderer of Mickey Kazon. You can help me prove your father's innocence, and put a dangerous criminal behind bars."

"My father is _not_ innocent." Torres said bitterly.

"Perhaps not. But do you truly believe him capable of murder?"

The woman stared at her reflection silently.

"Please don't let personal vendettas cloud your judgment. Logically, what is more likely; that your father shot a high-profile crime lord in his house, or that he drunkenly found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Torres folded her arms under the baggy coat. "What about this other guy, what makes you so sure he did it?"

"Some time ago, I worked on a case in New York, involving a deranged murder who fit the description of the 'unknown suspect' in the Kazon case. That man was never caught."

Torres glanced up at him, her eyebrows contorted into something akin to amusement. "Are you sure _I'm_ the one letting my judgment get clouded?"

Tim decided it would be wise not to attempt arguing a position he himself was uncertain of. So instead, he pulled a wad of bills from his coat. "This should buy you whatever parts you need for your car. All I need to know is where your father was likely to have been before he ended up in that bar where he threatened Kazon. The reports say that he and the other suspect came from the same area of town, in the company of many of the same individuals. If I have an idea of what kinds of activities they were involved in—"

"What do you _think_?"

"I need specifics. What are your father's vices, besides alcohol? Drugs? Women?" He added half-ironically, "Men?"

Billie gave him a look, then turned back to the window display, sighing deeply. "Daddy was always trying to pawn things for money, often things that weren't his. I never knew him to be interested in drugs, or to be particularly promiscuous, not that I'd put anything past him. But if I wanted to track my father—and God knows I wouldn't—I'd start by looking at the sketchiest pawn shops in town."

Tim handed her the money. "Thank you Miss Torres. And good luck on your journey."

* * *

He found Gardener just as the sun was beginning to set. He was sitting on a bench outside an old apartment complex. Tim ducked into an alley across the street, peering at Gardener from around the corner. Gardener was holding an opened newspaper, as if reading, but his eyes didn't move unless someone walked by. Tim wondered who Kitty had Gardener tracking this time.

When a blonde woman strode past the bench, Gardener's eyes stuck on her. She didn't notice. Tim was overtaken by a sense of dread, when Gardener rose from the bench, folding his newspaper, and began to follow her. She approached the apartment building's front door, drawing her keys, and Tim saw a silver web on her hand. It was Kitty's own singer, Miss Hanson. Why in the world was Kitty having her own woman tailed?

Tim suddenly realized that he might be misreading the situation; Annie and Gardener might be on some assignment for Kitty together, and were simply trying to look like they didn't know each other. Still, Tim left his hiding place and hurried across the street. He got a few looks, but luckily, none of them from Gardener (or Annie). When Gardener's head was turned, Tim ran past him and ducked behind the apartment complex's wall. Pressing himself against the cold bricks, he watched Gardener rush up to Annie.

"'Scuese me ma'am," Gardener called innocently.

Annie slowed to a stop, looking at Gardener with mild interest.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I live here, but I forgot my keys,"

Annie looked as if she had just been shaken out of some unpleasant thoughts. Seeming half somewhere else, she nodded, and assured Gardener that she could let him in. Tim's heart rate increased. He couldn't slip in with them without Gardener seeing him. But if he let them go, there was no telling when he'd be able to pull the same trick and get someone to open the door for him. She'd be alone with that psychopath. And then there was the fact that Tim was a Colored man, and Annie was a young blond white woman, it was getting dark, and this was a populace area where people would see and make assumptions.

 _An old film poster, framed by a brown brick wall._

Tim swayed where he stood. He pulled off his glasses, and blinked widely.

The image had just flashed into his mind, for a fraction of a second. He had no idea where it had come from. He was vaguely familiar with the picture being advertised—a German talkie from the early '30s, about a child-murderer—and the wall it hung on seemed to be part of this very apartment building. He looked behind him, down the wall. No poster on this side…

He heard the front door shut. Annie and Gardener were inside.

 _Timothy Excelsior_

The voice—or voices?—sounded strangely close, and not just because they were inside Tim's head. One might compare it to the voices you'd half-hear when you were starting to fall asleep; but that wasn't quite it. It felt just as familiar though, and just as natural. But Tim couldn't imagine where he'd experienced anything like this before.

 _Go to the other side of the building. Everyone's life depends on it. Including Annie Hanson's._

It almost felt, in a way, that he was talking to himself. The thoughts felt like his own, but he wasn't coming up with them himself. Was this how someone with schizophrenia felt, when they were "hearing voices?" No, he wasn't just hearing things. He felt something. It was like having his mind joined with someone— or something—else…

He saw himself creep down the street, pressed against the wall. He mustered enough control to look over his shoulder, ensuring that no one was watching him. He came around the corner. The building's back wall offered a few trash bins, some windows, basement doors… _there_. He made a beeline for the poster.

The paper was thin and worn, ripped in a few places. Against a black background was a stylized, black-and-white image of a man starring at his reflection in a glass surface, with the letter M marked on his shoulder. Below was the film's single-letter title, "M," in red block form, with the shadow of a man in a hat cast against it. Directed by Fritz Lang, starring Hollywood's favorite creep Peter Lorre. Tim had never realized just how much Lorre's large, innocent-looking eyes reminded him of Gardener.

 _Behind the poster._

He reached up, and realized he was still holding his glasses. He put them back on, then pinched up one corner of the poster and peeled it off. Then he took his glasses back off again, just to make sure they weren't somehow fooling him.

Behind the poster was some kind of mechanical panel. But it was unlike anything he'd ever seen, in real life or in a sci-fi film. The components were strangely smooth, and parts of it lit up like the neon signs downtown. But the unusual design wasn't what was so eerie about it. There was something very, very wrong about this panel.

Tim held the poster back up over the panel. No light shined through the paper. He moved his hand over the glowing components, and saw the green and blue rays reflected on his skin. Yet when he brought the poster back up, it seemed somehow immune to the light, as if one of them was a perfectly crafted illusion.

The person, people or thing speaking to him urged him along without words. He made to put his glasses back on, and then realized he didn't need them—had never needed them. He couldn't even remember when he'd begun to wear glasses. He dropped them to the ground, along with the poster, and began to work at the panel. He didn't know what he was doing or why, only that everything depended on this. Nothing could come between him and this duty.

Until a burst of electricity shot from the panel, like a hair thin bolt of lightning, striking him in the face.

* * *

The meld ended abruptly. All five Vulcans reacted at once, as if suffering some collective head injury. Blonde T'Lei almost collapsed to the floor, but T'Vora caught her.

"What happened?" the Doctor asked urgently, running his tricorder over the entire circle.

Vorik answered. "Tuvok attempted to shut the program down, but—"

" _Delaney to Sickbay_!"

"Go ahead!" The Doctor didn't know which twin he was speaking to, and at the moment didn't care.

" _Tuvok was just hit by a plasma burst from the holo-grid. It was_ deliberate _sabotage. Tuvok's still alive, but he_ —"

" _Wait!_ " the identical voice of the other twin practically screamed. " _Something's changed—he shut off one of the system blocks! He's opened a window for us!_ "

* * *

"So we made some progress?" Naomi asked hopefully.

She sat at a table with her mother, Tal Celes, and William Teffler. Dinner in the mess hall had been awkward these last few nights. It was as crowded as usual, but somehow, with the senior staff out of commission, the entire ship had been feeling oddly quiet. Of course, Engineering and other stations being shut down contributed to that feeling.

"Hopefully," Sam's exhaustion was evident in her face and voice. "The twins said that one of the system blocks was shut off, and now we're trying to figure out what we can do with that."

Crewman Chell, the ship's blue-skinned backup chef, stopped by their table with a basket of purple buns.

"Bolian roles anyone?"

Naomi thanked him and took one.

"So," Chell attempted to lift everyone's spirits, "At least we have an advantage now!"

"And Tuvok has a serious brain injury," Sam stabbed her salad with her fork.

"Nothing the Doc won't be able to fix," the Bolian assured her. "You know I've been keeping up with the news on that program, catching bits of it when I was helping in Engineering or Astrometrics. I hate to admit it, but if no one was in danger I'd probably be a fan."

"Same," Tal admitted.

Sam made a face. "Maybe if it didn't have Seska in it."

Naomi slowly swirled her purple bun in a puddle of ranch dressing on her plate. "It's interesting to see what she was like though. Kes too. I barely remember her, Ktarian memory or not, to be honest."

Sam smiled. "She was a lovely person Naomi. I'd really been looking forward to having her help raise you. She was the kind of person who never judged anyone. She'd have been a great role model. I think the ship really lost something when she left."

Tal Celes nodded. "I miss her."

"Same." Chell agreed.

Billy Teffler looked down at his soup, almost guiltily.

"Billy?" Tal looked at her friend curiously.

Billy shook his head. "It's nothing."

"What, you don't miss Kes?"

"It's just…" He looked around the table, with the same worried eyes he wore when his hypochondria was acting up. "I _liked_ Kes, I did. But I almost feel like, well, after she left, Neelix sort of seemed to lighten up. I mean, he wasn't always pointing fingers at people trying to 'steal' his girl, and he wasn't acting so…so…well he started acting more like a part of his crew, instead of some guy who was just dragged here by his girlfriend. It's like his whole personality changed after she dumped him, and even more after she was gone." His voice sped up. "And I don't know if this is just a rumor, but it seemed like Lt. Paris had a thing for Kes—maybe just a brother-sister thing—but either way, Tom and B'Elanna really took off after Kes was gone." Billy licked his lips nervously. "I feel so awful saying this, 'cause it's obviously not Kes's fault. But I almost feel like…like things got better in some ways after she left."

Sam didn't look offended. In fact, she looked like he'd said something very thought provoking. "Maybe…that's why Seska put Kes in there…to make Neelix and B'Elanna jealous."

Chell's blue face lit up with realization. "Lon Suder too! I heard he's in that program, isn't he?" The others nodded. "He gave Commander Chakotay a lot of grief back in the Maquis. And _Tuvok!_ That whole mind-meld incident..."

Sam was staring down at her salad. "So Neelix has Kes, Tuvok has Suder, Chakotay has Seska…B'Elanna's got her father…Tom's got _his_ father…"

"Someone to haunt each of them." Tal said ruefully.

Sam held up a hand. "Hang on, I think I'm onto something. Neelix has Kes…why not his sisters and parents? They were _murdered_. He's had a _much_ more difficult time getting over that, than Kes's departure." Sam knew Neelix better than anyone else on the ship, except maybe Naomi. "If Seska just wanted to upset Neelix, why pick _Kes_ to do it?"

"Because Seska knew who Kes was?" Tal shrugged. "Seska never knew Neelix's family."

"But her hologram checked the staff's logs. She found out all about B'Elanna and Tom's family problems. She could easily have done the same for Neelix. She picked Kes—I think—because Kes brought out the _worst_ in him. His jealously, his fear of losing something he…" Sam paused, and then suddenly smacked the table, making everyone jump. " _That's_ why she's a Bajoran!"

Tal looked confused for a second, but then her brown eyes bulged and she pointed at Sam. "Yes!"

" _Who_?" Chell looked between Sam and Tal, completely lost.

Naomi and Billy were equally confused.

"Seska!" Tal and Sam said in unison.

Tal explained it. "When Seska was in her Bajoran form, here on Voyager, she manipulated a lot of us. She was B'Elanna's best friend, she got her to violate the Prime Directive at least once."

"But," Chell tugged a blue earlobe, "Chakotay never let Seska pull his strings, even when they were an item. Well, he might've let her sway his judgment a teensy bit, but he certainly never let her talk him into breaking any fundamental Maquis rules, or Starfleet ones here on Voyager. Well, unless you count the time she lured him to the Kazon, but that was after she'd been outed as a Cardassian."

"After Chakotay knew she'd already duped him once." Sam let out a short, bitter laugh. "That's why Charles Liberty already knows 'Seraphine' as a villain, but Billie Torres doesn't! Seska could manipulate B'Elanna as her best friend, but not as her enemy. With Chakotay it was the opposite; she couldn't coax him around that much when he loved her, but when she was challenging him as an enemy he turned into a completely loose cannon."

Naomi looked at her mother, mind-blown. "So she's filled this program with people who will just drive Captain Janeway and Chakotay and the others to…make dumb choices?"

"Mayhew," Sam laced her fingers under her chin. "Probably based on the poor Captain's fiancé back home. I'll bet you ten months of replicator rations, the only time Captain Janeway thought of trying to break the Prime Directive to get us home, she had him on her mind. Seska's stuffed this program with people who just bring out the worst in everyone. That's how she decided who to put in there. Not just people who'd bring back bad memories. I mean, did Seven see her parents? Did Chakotay see his dead father? No. But they saw Seska and the Borg Queen."

Billy looked confused, and then sickened. " _That's_ who that Nazi woman is?"

Sam looked at him. "You've never seen a picture of the Queen? Not in the database, or any books on the Borg?"

Tal began to giggle, almost hysterically. "And you said that old Nazi woman was 'kind of sexy,' didn't you Billy!"

Naomi scratched a cranial horn thoughtfully. "So that's why Mezoti and the twins weren't in there. They'd bring out the _best_ in Seven."

"That, and none of the kids on board have had holograms made of them," Tal said. "Most of the people Seska did get were from programs like 'Insurrection Alpha' or Seven's old social lesson programs. The only ones Seska created special were what we just talked about, ones that would have the worst influence."

Naomi listened, chewing thoughtfully, then set down her half-eaten purple roll. "If these characters are bringing out the worst in everyone, then we should make our characters people who bring out the best in them!"

Sam looked at her daughter. "' _Our_ characters?'"

Naomi shrugged. "We're going to send something in through that 'window' Tuvok opened, aren't we? I just figured it might be a hologram of some kind. Maybe we can program new characters based on some of us."

Tal pointed at Naomi. "Make a hologram of her! Whenever the captain sees Naomi, she seems to remember that this journey wasn't all so bad. That's how it looks to me anyway. And I know Seven has a soft spot for her."

Sam set down her napkin, beaming at her daughter.

"Naomi, I…"

Sam leaned across the table, and kissed her daughter on the side of the forehead (avoiding the Ktarian horns). Then she left the table and hurried out of the mess hall, tapping her com badge.

"Wildman to the Doctor…"

"Hey!" Naomi pushed out of her chair. "Wait for me!"


	13. Wires Crossed

Charles could feel beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, and dampening his gag. He felt so stoned, he was certain Seraphine no longer needed the straps or gag to keep him from escaping or calling for help. He was struggling just to struggle.

The older nurse, with the tight bun, was glancing out the window of the hospital room's door. "Someone's coming," she drawled. "They'll probably question that gag."

Seraphine's brown eyes searched Charles' face, and then she undid the gag. Charles immediately began screaming for help. Seraphine didn't stop him. Instead, she took his hand, and began baby-talking him.

"It's alright, the War's over," Seraphine said, loud enough for the doctors walking by the door to hear.

Charles heard one of them say to the other, "Shell shock," before moving on down the hall.

Seraphine smiled down at him.

"What do you want," Charles asked hoarsely.

Her smile froze, as if he'd asked the great armor-piercing question.

"Does he really not know?" the older nurse asked, sounding only vaguely interested.

Seraphine seemed to be genuinely be considering his question.

"I know you want the Bird," Charles remembered.

He squinted tightly. It was hard to think, with the drugs clouding his brain.

"And you've failed to get it for us," the old nurse said. "So we're working with Annie now."

Something still didn't add up. "You're not doing all of this just to make some extra money. What do you want?"

Seraphine took a seat next to his bed. "I want you to answer some questions for me."

Charles stared up at her, breathing heavily. He was pretty sure she was threatening him with torture, but what she thought he could tell her, he hadn't the foggiest.

"About what," he asked.

Seraphine's fingers crawled over his tattoo. "When did you get this tattoo?"

He had no idea where Seraphine was going with this. He was pretty certain he'd answered that question when they'd first met. "I got it before shipping off. After my father died."

"What does it mean? What do these lines represent?" Her fingers ran down his forehead, tracing the tattoo. "What's this spiral supposed to be?"

Answering with complete honesty, he said, "I don't remember." It was getting difficult even to stay awake. "Something…something about a journey we made. Just a few generations ago." To himself he whispered, " _Where_?"

"What're your parents names?" Seraphine asked. "What's your sister's name?"

"K-Kasper and Harriet," he slurred under the drugs. "Sylvia."

"Looks like he's falling asleep," Seraphine's tone told him she was speaking to the other Nazi.

"I suppose he can have a short nap," the other nurse said, "But I want him awake before Annie runs out of time."

"So do I." Seraphine pinched a syringe needle from a nearby tray. "Charles, have you been in a hopstial before?"

"I'm a boxer," he scoffed.

"Ever been in a situation like this?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty sure."

What the hell was this crazy broad on about?

She held the needle in one hand, and with the other, began feeling his torso under the sheet. He didn't understand why she didn't just take the sheet off, if she was going to stick him. She felt for the bottom of his sternum, and then inserted the needle, making sure to scrape it against the bottom of his ribcage. Charles had endured far worse pain before, but this was definitely the most unpleasant injection he'd ever had. The thought was immediately followed by an explosion of déjà vu. He'd thought almost those _exact words_ to himself before, while feeling a needle stab him through a sheet, scraping his ribs, just like this.

"That stir any memories?" Seraphine asked.

He nodded fiercely.

She pressed down on the needle, shooting him up with _something_. "Where?"

His mind was racing. Where the hell was that memory from? When had he received a poorly-aimed shot the size of a baseball bat through a sheet? His medical exam for the army? A dream? Was that espresso she'd just injected him with? Holy god this sheet was itchy.

Seraphine suddenly stood up, as if just remembering something. Or like she'd just heard a gunshot go off. Charles hadn't heard or seen anything. But then again, he was pretty sure he was higher than the Empire State Building right now.

"Seraphine?" the old hag at the door asked.

Seraphine went to the window and drew back the curtains. When she opened the glass pane, Charles _knew_ he was stoned out of his mind. Or dreaming. The images of the busy street outside remained on the glass window as it moved opened, but beneath the "window" was a rectangular machine. It was unlike anything Charles had ever seen before. The best analogy he could come up with was a flat television screen, displaying a page from a foreign textbook, in Technicolor. Seraphine worked at it like a radio or radar technician. Her face showed a combination of determination and rage. Charles began to relax. Something was going wrong for Seraphine, and that was good news in his book.

The older nurse asked softly, "What's wrong, Seraphine?"

Seraphine grimaced. "It's a bit hard to explain. Someone just tried to double-cross us. Luckily I had an energy surge built into..." She shook her head. "You'd have to be one of the techies to really understand it." She moved back to the gurney, to tie Charles' gag back on, and give him some more unwanted touching. "Keep an eye on him for me, will you? I have a few things to take care of." Charles was relieved when she took her hand away and headed towards the door. She stopped, and said to the other "nurse," clearly enough for Charles to hear, "Don't go cutting him up or giving him a lethal injection while I'm gone, alright? I want to keep him around a little while longer."

The older nurse sighed. "If you insist."

Charles settled against the bed, facing his old Nazi guard defiantly.

* * *

Naomi and her mother were on their way to Sickbay, to inform the Doctor of the epiphany in the Mess Hall.

They had just stepped off the turoblift when a wall panel a few feet down the hall flickered and suddenly displayed a tiny video monitor. Seska was on the screen, staring straight ahead, as if she were preparing to speak to someone. Samantha exchanged a glance with her daughter, and the two of them crept carefully onward until they were facing the screen head-on. Sam stopped Naomi from walking closer, fearing that some kind of energy charge would shoot out at her, like the one that had hit poor Tuvok. Seska sat in some dark room, maybe a closet. She was still dressed in one of those ridiculous 1940s costumes, but her brown hair was down. More than ever before, it looked as if Voyager's false-Bajoran ensign was back from the dead.

"You couldn't leave well-enough alone, could you." Seska said flatly.

Sam swallowed. "Listen Seska, you—"

"I was only having a bit of fun."

It became clear that Seska couldn't hear Sam. She wasn't addressing Sam or Naomi personally. It seemed she was speaking to the entire ship.

While Seska paused to deliver a coy smile, Sam stole the few free seconds to tell Naomi, "Listen to her for me." Sam hit her com badge. "Wildman to the Doctor."

" _Are you seeing Seska too?_ " The Doctor replied.

Then, a Delaney twin's voice came on: " _We've got her on-screen in Astrometrics_ …."

Several officers from different parts of the ship began conversing over the com. Naomi tried to block them out, and focus on Seska.

On the screen, the Seska shrugged in her fur coat. "I'll admit, it wasn't completely harmless fun. I expected they might get a few bumps and bruises. There might've been gunplay, maybe a stabbing, and there was the slightest chance that somebody might even get killed. But what do you want from me; I've been cooped up for three years in that rusty Talaxian database. I needed to stretch my legs and have a little fun."

Naomi heard Vorik tell her mother on the other line, " _She's broadcasting all over the ship_ …"

Seska, focus on Seska.

"I'd have thought you'd all have figured by now that I'm not to be trifled with." A mocking sigh. "Since it's obvious you want my little game to end, I guess I'll just have to speed it up. Too bad; I always thought a good story should have some time to develop, before the big shoot-out. But I suppose even the best of writers sometimes has to meet a deadline. Enjoy watching your senior officers kill each other. I know I'm going to!"

For the first time Naomi could remember, she was as terrified of a holodeck malfunction as she was of the Borg and hostile aliens.

"…Just one more thing for you all to contemplate in the dark, when you're all sitting dead in the water."

* * *

In Astrometrics, Tal Celes stared at Seska. "What the hell does that mean?"

Megan slowly looked away from the screen, apparently thinking something over. Then she suddenly whirled around and her fingers flew over her console.

Jenny glanced at her twin. "Meg?"

Megan waved her sister's curiosity away. "Listen to Seska. Someone should…" Her eyes narrowed as she scrolled through the readings.

Jenny came up next to her sister. "You're looking for signs of a virus…in one of the _holograms_?" Her eyes widened when she realized which hologram Megan was examining.

"Well we knew that Bird had to be for something, right?" Megan looked up at her twin, and then noticed that Seska was no longer on the screen. It was back to displaying the holodeck grid. "Where'd Seska go?"

"That 'dead in the water' was the end of the transmission," Tal said. "She's headed towards Neelix's house now."

"Neelix?" Megan frowned. "But he left to go looking for Tuvok, he's not home."

Quietly, her sister said, "Kes is."

* * *

Seska knocked at the Felix household's door, and wasn't surprised to see "Kaaren Felix" answer as readily as if it were two in the afternoon. Ned's wife was dressed in her long dark-blue nightgown, her golden curls tumbling un-kept over her shoulders. She blinked red eyes, circled by dark rings. Even so, the young woman managed a warm smile.

"What can I do for you?"

Hearing the soft, carefree voice of Kes fueled Seska's rage almost as much as the incident that had inspired her to come to this house.

"You know Kes, we never really spoke much on Voyager."

Kaaren closed her eyes and shook her head. "Who's Kes?"

Seska shoved her way past the startled woman, into the dark house. She kicked the door shut, blocking the exit from Kaaren. "All these years, I've been so busy hating Janeway, loving Chakotay, hating Tuvok, missing Torres, hating Chakotay," she sighed. "I just never found the time to tell you how sick you make me."

Kaaren stared at her under a knitted brow, tensing where she stood. She clearly thought "Seraphine" was some kind of lunatic. But that was a reaction Seska was used to.

"There you were, prancing around the ship, going on about how curious you were about the universe, how excited you were to be on a starship, and the only reason you were even there was because Janeway blew up our only way home to protect your dust-bucket home world. For a species that doesn't even live one decade! I don't think I ever once heard you say to anyone, 'oh, by the way, I'm sorry my species got you all stuck out here. Thanks for giving up the next seventy-five years of your lives so I can enjoy the remaining eight of mine!' No, you just kept smiling away like some kind of fairy-princess, in a cottage full of dwarfs."

Kaaren breathed deeply, and said in Kes's low, serious voice, "You're _confused_."

"I've been told that." Seska shrugged one shoulder. "I gave up trying to make sense of it all years ago." She pulled a pistol from her fur coat. "I've been wanting to do this for _such_ a long time."

* * *

"I assure you Mr. Felix, I'm fine."

Ned helped Tim out of his car. He'd driven out into town earlier that evening, to search for his friend when he failed to call in. Tim had regained consciousness shortly after Ned had found him in that alley. Since then, he'd been behaving very strangely.

"I cannot remember what I was doing," Tim lamented, "Only that it was of the utmost importance."

He was speaking very strangely, sounding noticeably more stiff and technical than usual. Ironically, his glasses were gone. He had obviously suffered some kind of head injury, a serious one. Tim could hardly walk, and Ned had to pull him along with his arm over his shoulders. With effort, they made their way up the driveway to the house.

"Listen," Ned said sternly, "I know a dozen fellows in town who can help us get a doctor who won't ask any questions. As soon as we're inside I'll—"

They stopped on the front porch. Ned was staring at the door, which bobbed opened just a crack. Inside, the lights were off. Tim's eyes flared over the half-opened door, but he didn't dare move. Ned's jaw clenched, and he pushed the door opened with his free hand. Tim quickly drew his pistol. They hobbled inside, and Ned turned on the light.

Nothing.

The living room looked perfectly normal.

"Kaaren?" Ned called. "Kaaren? Sweetie, are you alright?"

Tim was scanning the room, looking for something out of place. It took only a few seconds for his eyes to land on the red spots on the carpet. Ned glanced at Tim, then did a double-take, and followed his gaze to the blood spots.

"Kaaren!" Ned forgot about Tim and charged forward.

Tim stumbled but caught himself, steadying himself on the wall. He watched Ned run behind the sofa, and duck out of sight.

" _KAAREN!_ "

Feeling ill (more ill), Tim followed Ned around the couch. Behind the sofa, the carpet was soaked with her blood. Much of it was in streaks, indicating a dragged body. Kaaren was slumped against the wall, with one arm draped through the partially-opened window. Before Ned seized her body, blocking the view, Tim was able to see a bullet hole between her eyes, and another in her stomach. While Ned rocked her, Tim saw two other holes on her back. The significance of the streak marks and the partially-opened window hit him full-force.

Ned's racking sobs shook Tim out of his thoughts, and Tim suddenly realized that he had absolutely no idea what to say or do to console his friend. None at all.

* * *

After Seska's message, Naomi and Samantha continued onward to Sickbay, to inform Doctor about their discussion in the Mess Hall, and their idea to create holograms of Naomi and other crewmembers.

"It's a charming idea," The Doctor sighed. "But really not necessary. Now that Tuvok's opened that 'window' for us, what we need to do is figure out a way to send one hologram in to finish what Tuvok started, and shut down the program. And that hologram won't be Naomi, no offense," he glanced down at the preteen girl. "Vorik has a team in engineering working on a way to send my program through that—"

" _Engineering to the Sickbay_ ," Vorik interrupted.

"Sickbay here. Have you made some progress?"

" _In a manner of speaking. We must alter our plans Doctor. Crewmen Celes and the Delaneys have made a disturbing discovery_."

One of the twins came on the line, sounding on the verge of hysterics. " _Change of plans Doc, you're not shutting off that holodeck program. Get the word around the ship. No one do anything to try shutting off that program, no matter what!_ "

* * *

An hour later, almost the entire crew was gathered in the Mess Hall. Confused faces and whispers rippled through the crowd. Most of the crewmembers had no idea what was so imperative that they all had to find it out at once; normally, the general populace of Voyager got news from daily electronic letters, or old-fashioned gossip.

"Okay," Sam Wildman addressed the crowd with folded arms. "By now you all know the scoop: the senior staff's stuck in a program based on Earth's mid-twentieth-century, and they've all been brainwashed to kill each other over a statue of a bird. And of course you all know by now that Seska's behind this. You know that we made some progress coaxing Tuvok to shutting down the program, and he opened a window for us to send in a hologram to finish the job. But Seska's responded by speeding up the story now, to push the senior officers over the edge. We need to get them out and fast. Unfortunately, we now realize we can't do that by simply ending the program. At least not yet. Megan and Jenny Delaney just made an important discovery." She turned to the twins.

Jenny Delaney straightened her green uniform. "We're both ashamed that we didn't think of it sooner. We were all so concerned with the senior staff and trying to figure out what was going on in their brains, it just didn't occur to us to look at the program itself more carefully."

From a nearby table, Mariah Henley offered, "Well that's why none of us are senior officers."

The twins exchanged a shrugging look.

Jenny continued. "Well what we discovered is that the statue is actually a computer virus. A virus worked into a three-dimensional, holographic form, its signature masked to make it look like just another ordinary hologram."

"Wait, hang on," Marla Gilmore said from a sofa in the sitting area, where her one-year-old daughter dozed in her lap. "A computer virus...that's a _hologram_?"

"Yep," Megan confirmed.

Gilmore glanced at her sleeping daughter in her arms. No doubt the Gilmore fancied herself fairly tech-savvy, being the former chief engineer of the Equinox, as well as the adoptive mother of a part-Borg baby. Glancing back at the twins she began, "How—How the hell is that even…?"

"Seska made it work." Megan replied simply. "Does anyone want to hear the riveting technological details?"

From the back of the Mess Hall, T'Vora admitted, "I _am_ intrigued by the notion of a holographic—"

"Another time perhaps," Icheb suggested.

Jenny placed a hand on her hip. "When the story ends, presumably after the senior staff have all killed one another, the holographic environment will of course dissolve back into the computer's systems. When that happens—when the statue dissolves back into the computer—it will unleash a virus that will shut down all systems on the ship."

Megan emphasized, "From the warp core right down to the lavatories."

Sam Wildman finished, "We'll be sitting dead, in the dark, with no life support, no food, no…well you get the idea."

Crewman Mortimer Harren folded his arms. "So, what's the new plan then?"

The Doctor took over. "Our priority now is, get that Bird. Get it out of the program. All of the other problems can just wait. We remove the Bird from Seska's control, and we contain it. _Then_ we shut down the program. Then we figure out how to get the senior staff their memories back, and then we find a way to get rid of the virus and Seska."

"Oookay," Mortimer stared at the hologram inquisitively. "And how do we get the bird-virus out of the holodeck? Place your mobile emitter on it?"

"Well that's the tricky part," the Doctor admitted. "Right now, all we can do is send holograms into the holodeck. What we've got planned right now, is to get a hold of the statue, then find our way to the holodeck's exit and manually open the doors from the _inside_. Then have someone waiting outside to receive the statue, with my mobile emitter, before Seska can stop us."

Crewman Chell caught on. "Oh! You'll use your mobile emitter to get the hologram-statue out of the holodeck!"

"Precisely."

"So what do you need all of us for?" Crewman Gerron, a young Bajoran, asked.

The Doctor replied, "This will be something of a covert operation. We need a few volunteers to accompany me to the holodeck."

"I thought only a hologram could enter?" Mariah Henley squinted in confusion.

Noah Lessing, the Equinox crewmember who'd become Henley's unlikely friend, smiled at her. "Ever heard of a holo-communicator?"

"Exactly." Sam Wildman said, then caught herself. "Well, no, not quite exactly. Doctor?"

The Doctor searched for a way to break this all down. "The problem with a standard holo-communicator is that the hologram only moves with its speaker. If, for example, Ensign Wildman were to try using a holo-communicator to project herself into the holodeck, she'd have to run and walk blindly around Sickbay, trying to direct her hologram. Fortunately we have an alternative. Do you all remember, about five years ago, when I rescued a dying Vidiian scientist named Denara Pel?"

The responses he received weren't what he was hoping for.

"I suppose it _was_ a while ago," the Doctor admitted. "Well to summarize: Dr. Pel had an implant in her brain that contained her consciousness, in the event that her brain itself failed. I then ingenuously reworked her implant to project her mind into a new holographic body, while her real one lay unconscious. I've modified the design to allow some of you to do the same thing." Quickly he added, "This wouldn't involve anything being inserted into your brain, mind you. You'd just wear a cordial monitor, and essentially take a nap in Sickbay."

"Wait a minute," Crewman Tabor shifted from where he stood against the wall. "Won't Seska notice a bunch of new holograms pouring into the holodeck?"

"Seska's not omnipotent," Vorik said, speaking for the first time. "Any more than the Doctor. She is a powerful hologram, but merely a hologram. No offense meant, Doctor. Some of us will act as if we are attempting to hack back into the program. We hope this will distract her, at least long enough to get our mission underway. Naturally we will also provide the new holograms with a signature to mimic those of all the other holograms in the program."

Mortimer Harren cleared his throat. "Not to sound like a coward. But this sounds like a job for the senior staff—or backup senior staff."

Amelia Jenkins corrected him. "Actually, it's a job for whoever can bring out the best in the senior officers. Seska's populated the program with people from the staff's past, who bring out the worst in them. Part of her plot to drive them all to do violent, stupid things. When the Doctor, Sam and Naomi go in, their aim will be to convince the senior staff to unite against Seska's character. Whoever helps them do this will have to be able to out-talk the characters trying to manipulate them."

"Did you say Naomi was going?" Mortimer Harren looked at Naomi, his folded arms slackening with surprise.

Naomi shrugged. "Only in holo-form, remember. It's not like I can actually get hurt."

Sam gave Harren a small shrug, looking like she'd just agreed to let Naomi play her first mature-rated holo-vid.

"O-Okay," Tal Celes squinted, shaking her head. "I, I want to help—I volunteer,"

"Me too," Noah Lessing and Marla Gilmore both said, almost simultaneously.

In her lap, Marla's dozing daughter stuck her fingers in her ears.

"…but first," Tal said, "someone run this by me again. What's the mission? Get the statue, or talk to the senior officers?"

Sam held up her hands, begging for patience. "We go in, as characters. We blend into the story, so Seska won't notice us. We can't speak to the senior officers as ourselves; that will only confuse them. We have to blend in, and convince them that it's in their best interest to work together against Seraphine—Seska's character."

The Doctor added, "After we convince Miss Indiana—the Captain—to give up the Bird. And at some point we should probably also free Commander Chakotay."

Chell cut in. "Wait, I haven't been keeping up with the program. Where's Chakotay right now?"

The Doctor's lips parted for a reply, but Icheb beat him to it.

"He is restrained to a hospital gurney and gagged. Being guarded by Seska and the Borg queen, who are dressed as nurses. Locating him should not be hard."

The mess hall fell silent.

Mortimer Harren said, in a low but clear voice, "I think I want to try out this program."

Mariah Henley made a face at her old friend. "Weirdo."

"Alright so hang on," Tal Celes's hand came up. "How are you going to 'convince' the captain to give you that statue? She's betting everything on the money she's gonna get off it."

T'Vora replied, "Obviously, they will program their characters to posses the money her character would want, and make a bid on the statuette."

"If only it were that simple." The Doctor said. "Unfortunately, Seska has installed a rule in the program, making it impossible to create new currency of any kind. Our new characters will have to either rob a bank, loot a jewelry store, or...come up with another means of convincing Kitty Indiana to hand over the statue."

"Just our luck," Tal Celes muttered.

"Okay!" Sam clapped her hands together. "We don't have much time. We need volunteers, and then we need to come up with characters and stories. Let's get started!"

* * *

Tim took the initiative to call the police. As he hung up the phone, he felt something was wrong. That was, aside from everything that had happened that night. Something related to the phone. How had he missed a slick black telephone sitting in Ned and Kaaren's living room? They lived comfortably, but one would hardly call the couple "well-off." How on Earth were they able to afford a telephone? Tim's gaze lingered on his reflection in the phone's black surface, and got stuck on his thin mustache…then his oddly-shaped eyebrows, and finally his pointed ears…

Ned was inseparable from Kaaren's body, still crying uncontrollably. Tim felt a guilt he couldn't begin to describe, for a number of reasons. He still had no idea what a friend should do. And his sympathy for Ned was coupled with an unsettling feeling that Kaaren had been someone very important to him, almost like a daughter… But how was that possible? He'd barely known her… Searching for some method of emotional escape, Tim's eyes fell onto the little red radio on the kitchen counter.

If there was any kind of local killer on the loose, it would surely be on the news.

He turned the radio on, and by a freakish coincidence, it was already tuned to the local news station. Actually, more of a talk show.

"… _'Do you think these murders are connected?' 'Well I'll tell you what. First John Torres is a suspect in Kazon's murder, and then less than a week later, a cop dies trying to arrest Torres' daughter. Is it just a coincidence?'_ …"

 _Coincidence._

There had been a number of unlikely coincidences occurring in San Francisco this week, Tim thought, hadn't there…


	14. Thinking in Circles

While the majority of the crew was in the mess hall, a skeleton crew was left to man the most important stations. And a few others were assigned to try hacking into the holodeck, to keep Seska distracted. Engineering was practically empty. Bolian Crewman Golwat stood with one blue hand on her hip, the other resting on a console. The small screen below her displayed the holodeck, in the same grid-formatting that the crew had been using to monitor the senior officers over the last few days.

Shaking her head, Golwat remarked, "The Doc better get some people in there soon. Seska wasn't bluffing when she said she was speeding up the story." Speaking half to herself, she observed, "Time was already passing much too quickly before, and now it's been less than two hours since 'Kaaren' died and it's already the next 'day.'"

From his station at the Warp Core, Muhammad Ashmore asked, "But they're all alright? The senior staff I mean?"

Golwat tilted her head to the side, in a Bolian nod. "For the moment."

"What's everyone's status?" Ashmore asked. "Where's Seska first of all?"

"At a holo-grid," the Bolian replied. "Still trying to out-hack us. The distraction's working." She glanced up to the second level of Engineering, where Kao-Li Xiong and Angelo Tassoni were pretending to hack into the holodeck. "They're doing a good job."

"What about the senior staff?" Ashmore asked.

"Neelix is asking around town, to try to find out who killed his wife. Paris, Torres and Kim are hiding in a cellar in on the edge of town. Seven of Nine is taking a nap, with the Suder hologram watching her through her keyhole. Chakotay's higher than a class of Academy freshmen on Andorian Crystals. The captain's downing coffee like an alcoholic, oh and Tuvok's gone completely crackers. Not that those last two are really news."

Ashmore double-checked his console, then left his station. "It may not be surprising news, but it is _bad_ news. Maybe it's me, but Tuvok seems to be the last senior officer you want going bananas. I mean, the Captain loses it, she just locks herself in her quarters for a few months. If Chakotay's hallucinating, worst case scenario, he punches someone. If Seven's implants malfunction, she usually just steals a shuttle to get some alone time. But Tuvok, he's the one that will run around the ship mind-melding people, or knocking someone out in the turbo-lift. I wouldn't be surprised if he strangled Neelix." He came up next to Golwat, and looked around the screen. "Where is he?"

"Writing on the wall."

* * *

"Tim?" Ned Felix poked his head into the alley. "What are you doing here? I thought we came out here to look for information about who might've killed my wife!" He moved into the alley. "Tim? Timothy Excelsior?"

"My name," his partner whispered, his eyes glued to the wall he was writing on, "Is not Timothy Excelsior."

Even with all the grief and rage storming through Ned's thoughts, a tiny smattering of confusion managed to squeeze its way in, and his eyes shifted back and forth. "W-what is your name then?"

Tim emitted an almost animal-like grunt of frustration, and gave his head a tiny shake. He was writing very intently. Ned came around to look at what he was drawing. Tim had covered the wall in sketchy spirals, marked off into sections and labeled with cramped sloppy writing.

"Is that some kind of map?"

"Indeed." Tim replied. "Of this city. This world. This…zoo."

Was it possible that Kaaren's death had somehow had a worse effect on Tim than on her own husband? No, Tim had been starting to lose it before that, ever since Ned had found him unconscious. This must be the result of his head injury.

Ned stammered, "It's getting dark out. Maybe we should just go to a hospital," Ned suggested. "I know a quick route—"

"All the routes in this so-called 'city' are illusions, tricks. Like a game of chutes and ladders!" He finally turned to face Ned. Tim looked and sounded determinately stiff, like he was trying to keep all of his emotions concealed, but his frantic voice implied that he wasn't succeeding. "Ned Felix, San Francisco is an enormous city. One of the largest in America. Yet in all of our searching, we've walked down the same alleys, the same streets, past the same businesses. We've encountered the same individuals, from the Queen's Cabin all the way to Sandrine's. I remember each of them now as clearly as if we were just there. All the same buildings, but shifted in order, as if every time we wish to visit some place 'new,' this city simply rearranges itself to create the illusion that we are moving."

Ned nodded, as if he understood. "Yes! That's um, very interesting. I'll keep that in mind. Now why don't we just—"

"Ned?"

Willy stood on the sidewalk, staring into the alley, with his hands in his coat pockets. Ned had no idea what to say. There was no hope of him acting cheery today, or of offering a reasonable explanation for why his partner was doodling on the wall.

"Ned," Willy hurried into the alley. "I read about Kaaren, in the papers this morning. I've spent the whole day trying to find you."

Ned's jaw clenched. "I don't want sympathy. I'm out here looking for answers."

"I know. And I might have one for you." Willy shook his head. "O-or at least a clue. Ned I," his face contorted. "I didn't want to say anything, it's not proper to intrude in this kind of thing, but I can't stay quiet now, not if it might have something to do with her death."

"Spit it out Willy!"

"She was at the movies last week! With a man. I was at the same showing, that John Wayne picture. They were…well they weren't being platonic."

Ned's second worst fear, after Kaaren's death, had come true. His blood boiling, he demanded, "Who was the man? What did he look like?"

"He, he was tall, lanky guy. Pale, light-brown hair. Dressed like a hobo…"

Ned was visibly trying to keep himself from shaking.

Ned managed to urge Tim back to their car, and dropped him off at the hospital. Then, hitting the accelerator, he sped back to the house. Kaaren's body was in the morgue now, but the mess hadn't been cleaned up. Ned flew past the blood stains and tore up the stair case. Once inside the bedroom, Ned turned the room upside-down, looking for some evidence, anything that might prove whether or not Willy's story was true. Maybe Willy had been mistaken, maybe he'd just seen a woman who looked like Kaaren…

Ned looked under the bed and froze. An unfamiliar, red sock sat bunched up, far under the bed, covered in dust bunnies. Ned reached under and fisted it up. Sitting upright, he smoothed out the sock, brushing away the dust. A cartoon character grinned at him from the sock's ankle.

Porky the Pig.

* * *

Tim Excelsior—not that he accepted that as his name any longer—was led into a waiting room at the hospital, where he waited…and waited. A few days ago, he would have assumed that he was being overlooked because of his skin color. But now, he was convinced that it was just another part of the twisted illusion that was this city. He decided to do some more investigating.

Tim strolled right out of the waiting room, and down the halls of the hospital. No one batted an eye. His clothes were clean and his composure flawless; he probably looked like a visiting friend or relative. He glanced through the window of each door, as he passed the hospital rooms, unsure who or what he was looking for. He passed a room with a tattooed patient, and then did double-take. Charles Liberty lay on a gurney, with a blanket covering him up to his shoulders. And for some reason, his mouth was gagged. The only other person in the room was a gray-haired nurse, who was reading the morning funnies in the newspaper (at seven o'clock in the evening no less).

Tim tried the door. Not surprisingly it was locked.

The nurse's head turned up at the sound of the clicking doorknob.

Tim thought for a second, then grabbed the knob again and forced it down. It broke clean off. As the door swung inward, the nurse dropped the newspaper and Liberty's head turned sharply. The nurse stepped forward threateningly and drew a pistol from her skirt pocket. Without even having to think about it, Tim seized the wrist holding the gun, and with his other hand, gave her the neck-pinch he'd used a few days earlier to subdue Liberty.

After the nurse collapsed to the floor unconscious, Tim moved to the bed. Liberty was struggling frantically against some restraints that must've been under the sheet, screaming through is gag. Tim carefully undid the gag and pulled the ball of fabric out of his mouth.

"Get me out! Un-strap me! Please!"

Tim's eyes traveled up and down Liberty's face. He'd seen this tattooed man in a similar state of struggle, recently. Sometime in the last few weeks, or months. Tim realized that he himself had been the thing the man had been trying to escape from, that time. Tim had been holding his head.

"I know you," Tim finally said quietly.

"Yes!" Liberty hissed frantically. "Yes we met at Kitty Indiana's club, you knocked me out with that neck pinch. Get these straps off! That woman's not alone, there's another one, she'll be back any—"

Tim placed two fingers over Liberty's tattoo. " _My mind to your mind..._ "

"What the hell are you doing?" Liberty's squirming increased, and he hollered, "Help! Help, someone!"

The hospital staff walked past the room, as if they didn't hear them. This did not surprise Tim.

"They cannot hear us, Mr. Liberty," Tim assured him. "This is all an illusion. And I intend to find out who is controlling it."

This did not serve to comfort Charles Liberty, and only seemed to increase his fear of Tim.

"Now focus," Tim ordered. "Relax your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts…"

The surface of Charles Liberty's mind contained nothing surprising: determination to escape from Seraphine, fear for Annie and Billie, memories of the War and growing up on an Indian reservation. The emotions were strong, but the memories were weak, very feeble. Like tissue paper. Tim tried to dig on, but found himself stuck. It was like when you were digging in the sandbox at school, and finally got to the bottom of the sand and hit clay.

Tim was vaguely aware of Charles weakly begging him to stop. The experience was growing painful for both of them. But still Tim pressed on—in part literally; his hold on Charles head tightened.

"We have met before," Tim urged. "We've both been in this dilemma before. We've had our minds tampered with, on multiple occasions."

A memory suddenly flew up—one that felt real. Charles—or whoever this man really was—had been restrained to a bed in a "hospital." He'd been trying to save his comrades from another illusion like this one. And then on another occasion, he'd also been held prisoner by the woman who currently called herself "Seraphine." The illusion around them was built on real situations. But where did those real events take place? And when?

Charles was not handling their link well. His panic coupled with the bad memories being brought up made entering his mind akin to sailing through a hurricane. He was too weak, Tim decided. When he pulled his hands away, ending their meld, Liberty was panting, staring at the ceiling in a daze.

"You cannot help me," Tim decided, and turned to the door.

Blinking out of his stupor, Charles croaked, "No wait, wait! Annie's in danger, I've got to get to her! Please, please!"

Annie. Annie Hanson…

The last sane thoughts that had been going through Tim's mind were of concern for Annie. She was being stalked by Gardener, the psychopath. Both faces were familiar to Tim, in the same way that Charles' was. He knew where he would be going next.

Charles watched his last hope of escape take off madly down the hall, forgetting about him entirely. His head slammed back onto the pillow and he turned away from the door, not wanting anyone to see the tears that rolled from his squinted eyes.

* * *

Ned Felix paced the bedroom, the Porky Pig sock in hand.

Tommy Chicago, that scum. So Kaaren _had_ been willing to stoop that low. After all that Ned had done for her…

But what could Tom's affair have to do with Kaaren's death? Surely if Tom was going to kill someone it would be Ned, to get rid of competition, wouldn't it? But who knew. It was obvious now that Tom had no scruples. Sleeping with Ned's wife, and impregnating another woman—

The other woman!

Kaaren had told him and Tim how a pregnant woman had showed up at the door the other night, argued with Tom, and then driven off with him and Harry Kimitsu. Kaaren had sounded disturbed, almost frightened when she told them. If they'd both loved Tom…if Tom had left the pregnant one for Kaaren…that could certainly be a motive for murder.

By now, Ned was past caring about the law or what was ethical. The only thing on his mind was Kaaren's body, slumped by the window. Five minutes later he was in his car, with a pistol in his coat pocket.

* * *

The little man with the large eyes had followed Annie into the apartment complex the other day, and then up the stairs, claiming he lived on the same floor as her. The next day, she'd seen him twice on her way to work. She saw him _at_ work, in the audience. And she saw him on the way home. Several times, she'd rushed up to her door's keyhole, half-expecting to see him standing out there, but didn't.

She was pacing the room in her long white robe now, contemplating where else she might look for the silver Bird. Trying not to think about what the Nazi was doing to Charles, with all the drugs and operating tools at her disposal.

 _There it was again_. A shadow under her door.

This time, she didn't look at it. She continued milling about her apartment, as if she'd noticed nothing. As carefully as she could, she made her way to the keyhole and peered through. But whoever was there was already gone.

Annie decided to try a little experiment. She quickly retrieved her keys from the counter and dropped them into a robe pocket. Then she stepped out into the hall, and hurried down the steps, leaving her door unlocked and opened just a crack. She continued down to the lobby and waited for three minutes. She ignored the confused front-desk worker, who was clearly wondering why Annie was standing in the hall in her bathrobe. Then she returned back up the stairs, as stealthily as possible. Her apartment door was now fully closed. Probably locked. Luckily Annie had the key in her pocket.

She slid the key in and unlocked the door, then shoved it opened. That creepy little man was in her apartment, going through her dresser drawer. His large opal eyes locked on her, and he charged for the door. Annie caught him with an iron grasp, and threw him down to the floor. Then she kicked her door shut.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded. "Are you with Bruna Rike?"

"N-no," he stammered. "I-I-I'm, I'm just a pervert. I like to look at women's…" he closed his eyes, struggling to find the word. "…socks!"

His eyes flew opened, as he apparently realized that he'd probably picked the wrong word.

"Indeed." Annie seized him by his long scarf, spun him around and slammed him against the door. "You're going to tell me who sent you to stalk after me and why. Was it Kitty? Is she suspicious of me?"

"W-why would a kitty be suspicious? Did you steal her tuna fish?" the little man laughed nervously at his own pathetic attempt at a joke.

"I'm going to count to three," Annie warned, her ice-blue eyes boring into his black ones. "And when I'm finished you will tell me everything, or I'll send you out that window! One…"

The door suddenly flew opened, knocking both Annie and the man into the wall. Annie retained her grip on his coat, and he hung sandwiched between her and the door. When the door swung shut again, Timothy Excelsior stood in her apartment, looking around with twitching eyes that finally landed on Annie and her stalker.

"You!" Tim grabbed the end of the man's scarf, and pulled him out of Annie's grasp. "Jon Gardener!"

Annie stood pressed against the wall, and watched Tim spin Gardener to face him.

"I know you," Tim stared into Gardener's terrified eyes. "I have known you…I have been one with you."

Annie's eyebrow arched. "Well, at least I know nobody's here to ravage _me_."

Gardener shot her an offended look, and shook his head frantically. "I ain't queer! I don't know this crazy ni—"

Tim suddenly brought both hands to Gardener's head, and shut his eyes.

" _My mind to your mind_ …"

Annie and Gardener exchanged confused looks. Whatever Tim thought he was doing to Gardener, it wasn't happening. Tim began chanting more frustratingly, his closed eyes squinting. Finally he released Gardener.

Heaving, Tim pointed at the startled man and hissed, "You are an illusion!"

Annie chose to interpret that as, _Time to get the hell out of here_. She bolted out of her apartment and tore down the steps.

Tim's voice echoed through the complex, "Whoever you are controlling this dream, I will find you …"

* * *

For the last several hours, Billie, Tom and Harry had taken up residence in the storm cellar of an abandoned farm. It was the type of basement that was dethatched from the house, like the kind Dorothy's family owned in "The Wizard of Oz." Billie sat at the bottom of a staircase that led up to a slanted pair of double-doors.

"Okay," Billie ran her hands through her curls. "So let me get this straight; someone stole the Bird, your boss thought Charles did it, so she captured him, and…then what?"

Tom and Harry exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

Tom replied, "Aaand then we…tried to get him to tell us. Where it was."

Harry shook his head innocently. "All we did was rough him up a little, nothing serious."

Billie stared at them, then began to titter. "W-wait, wait a minute. Are you telling me you actually tried to get him to make a confession with the old 'tie him to a chair and beat him' routine? You do realize he gets punched for a living, right?"

"No!" Tom assured her. "We didn't think he'd talk from that, but we wanted _him_ to think we'd think he would, so we could send the singer in later on to, to you know, 'Ooooh, Rick darling,'" Tom's impression of Ingrid Bergman was high pitched and poorly accented. "'Ooooh my love, I'm so sorry….' You know?"

Billie stared at him.

"Hey," Harry said, "We weren't completely ineffectual. I knocked his chair clean over!"

Billie shot to her feet. " _What_?"

Tom quickly cut in, "On accident! I was getting ready for a swing, and then I accidently hit Harry and he fell into—"

Even as Tom was rambling, Billie was grabbing poor Harry by the shirt and slamming him into the basement wall. "Charles is like a brother to me! If you've done anything to hurt him I'll have you wearing your balls for a bowtie!"

Harry stared cross-eyed at the manic woman.

"Hey," Tom came up behind Billie. "Now just a minute. So if his opponent completely pummels him in a boxing ring, you'll just laugh, but we do the exact same thing and you—"

The sound of a gunshot ended the conversation.

Bits of wood flew into the basement. All three heads turned up to the basement doors. The lock was blond clean off. One door was pulled opened, with a frightening force. They all feared it would be the police staring down at them, but instead it was Ned Felix. Felix stomped down the steps with a gun in hand, glaring at them all threateningly.

"Thought you'd get away, Chicago?"

Tom and Harry hadn't the faintest idea what Ned could be on about. Surely he wasn't here to kill them all over Tommy's affair with Kaaren. Billie of course had never met Ned, and was stuck staring, trying to figure out what universe he was from.

"So!" Ned exclaimed. "Here you all are, hiding like rats in a hole."

* * *

In Engineering, Golwat slapped her blue hand over her combadge. "Golwat to the Doctor. Get someone in the holodeck now! Neelix is about to kill Pairs, Torres and Kim!"

" _Understood_!"

* * *

Ned took a few steps closer to his three hostages. "I guess you were in such a hurry to get out of the city, you didn't notice how many people saw you switch cars and take off to this little farm. Maybe you forgot, Chicago, I have an entire network in this city!"

"Ned," Tom was just short of shouting, "... _what_?"

" _What_?" Ned mimicked. "Why don't you ask the policeman who you killed." Harry flinched. "Why don't you ask Kaaren. Why don't you ask her!" he glared at Billie.

"What?" Billie gripped the gun in her own pocket.

"Ned," Tom shouted now. "What the hell is going on?"

"I've been asking myself the same question," Ned came right up to Tommy, his gun inches away from his chest. "I've been wondering it ever since Tim and I came home last night, to find Kaaren in a pool of her own blood!" he was shouting now. "With four holes in her!"

Tom's jaw dropped. Billie gasped and wavered slightly. Harry quickly caught her arm.

"But I know a few facts now. I know that you and Kaaren were playing patty-cake behind my back!" Ned barked. "And I know that just two nights ago, one of your old girlfriends turned up pregnant! The next thing I know, Kaaren is mysteriously dead!" Ned jerked his head to Billie. "You're lucky you're pregnant. It's the only reason I don't kill you right now!"

Tom's gun came out. "You're damned right you won't kill her, hedgehog!"

"This is your fault Chicago!" Ned pressed his gun against Tom's heart. "You hop from girl to girl, not caring if she's married, not caring if you get her pregnant, and then when one of them kills the other you take off like a coward, and kill a few policeman on the way—"

Billie brought the gun in her coat up and shot through the pocket, hitting Ned in the leg. Ned made a noise and stumbled, giving Harry the chance to swipe his gun. On his way down, Ned grabbed Tom's leg, pulling him to the ground with him. Tom and Ned were soon rolling around the cellar floor, wrestling for the gun. Harry and Billie both took aim at Ned, but it was impossible to get a clean shot with him and Tom fighting like they were.

Either Ned was doped up on some kind of drug (which would explain a bit), or his thirst for revenge trumped the pain he should have been feeling from his leg, which was bleeding profusely. Tom slammed Ned onto his back, and it looked like Billie and Harry finally had a clean shot. Just at that moment, Ned wrapped his fingers around the gun in Tom's hands, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was followed by Harry's scream, as he slammed backwards against the wall, his gun twirling upside-down on his finger.

In the second Tom and Billie stood watching Harry, Ned wrenched the gun from Tom and rolled out from underneath him. He got to his feet and stood over Tom with his gun trained on his forehead, execution style.

The next gunshot shook all four of them.

Tom was still alive, with no holes in him. Tom, Ned and Billie turned to the staircase. Even Harry, panting, blinked through his pain to see who was there.

It was a cop.

He cocked his gun and descended the stairs, with a perfectly trained posture. He resembled a younger, thinner, tattoo-less Charles Liberty. He didn't hold his gun with both hands, like cops usually did in these situations (or at least in the movies). He held it with one hand, the other arm held out for balance.

In a low stern voice, the cop said, "That's enough."


	15. The Melbourne Method

Miguel Ayala moved down the staircase, with the same trained mask he wore on Tuvok's security team and fighting in the Maquis. A good performance was imperative, especially now. He had been forced to intervene in this program while the rescue group was still coming up with their characters and the new story line. This meant that Ayala not only had to improvise his character, but he also had to leave everything ambiguous enough to make room for whatever story the Doc and the others eventually came up with.

"Nobody move." Ayala ordered. "I'm not here to arrest any of you. I'm here to enlist you."

Naturally, Tom, B'Elanna and Neelix were confused. Neelix was still standing over Tom with a gun, somehow oblivious to his own bleeding leg. In the back of the room, Harry groaned, holding his side. He'd been shot in the ribs, and the blood was leaking through his fingers. Tom and B'Elanna looked back at their friend, but didn't dare move against the cop's orders.

Ayala nodded to Harry. "Go help him. Put something on that wound." He approached Neelix, who finally looked down at his own injury. "You too. You shouldn't even be standing on that. Sit down!"

Neelix obeyed, and sank to the ground. Ayala quickly undid the belt from his uniform, and used it to tie off Neelix's leg.

Ayala didn't know if it was the morphine Neelix's character was addicted to, or some difference in human and Talaxian biology, but either way Neelix's lack of reaction to his own gunshot wound was disconcerting. Ayala began searching the room for something to turn into bandages.

"They're murderers!" Neelix croaked.

Thinking quickly, Ayala said, "No Mr. Felix, you're wrong. They didn't kill Kaaren."

Somewhat accusingly, Neelix demanded, "How do you know my name?"

Ayala stalled his response by acting like he was focused on the search for bandages.

"I can't answer all of your questions right now." Ayala finally replied, opening an old chest. "All I can tell you is that there's a lot more at stake here than your personal feud with each other." He found a thin sheet in the chest, and tore a section of it off. He tossed the remainder of the sheet to B'Elanna and Tom. "Here, bandage him up."

Tom tore another section of the cloth off and bunched it into a ball, which he pressed against Harry's chest. B'Elanna squeezed Harry's hand while Tom used the rest of the fabric to tie the makeshift bandage on. Tom seemed as trained as he would have when assisting the Doctor in Sickbay. Ayala wondered if Tom's character was a trained nurse, or if this was more subconscious knowledge coming to the surface.

"This won't work for long," Tom warned. "He needs surgery!"

And the only hospital in town had at least one Nazi in it…

Ayala hit the com badge that was hidden underneath his police uniform. "Ayala to the Doctor. Harry and Neelix need a hospital. Is that safe?"

There was a pause before the Doctor responded. "If you must. But avoid room 42. We'll warn you if the Queen gets too close."

"Alright. Ayala out."

He didn't want this conversation to go on any longer than it had to. Tom, B'Elanna and Neeilx were already staring at him as if he'd grown an extra head.

"New technology," Ayala explained.

Somewhat stunned, Tom said, "I've never heard any recording that clear before."

Curiously B'Elanna asked, "What 'queen' was he talking about?"

"Code talk." Ayala said quickly. "Come on, we have to get these two help."

Ayala led them up the stairs, Ayala supporting Neelix, and Tom and B'Elanna helping Harry. A police car waited for them in the dark field. Ayala dumped Neelix into the front seat, while Harry was put in the back between Tom and B'Elanna. Ayala took off at top speed. It was a damn lucky thing Tom Paris had gotten Ayala into these old-Earth holonovels early in Voyager's journey; Ayala's ability to drive a 20th century automobile had been one of the reasons the Doctor had chosen him for this assignment.

In the rear-view mirror, the ensign was pale and sweating. His formerly white "bandage" was rapidly turning a dark shade of red.

Weakly Harry said, "I'm gonna die."

"You're not gonna die," Tom scoffed. "Trust me Harry, I've been in this business a long time. This happens all the time."

B'Elanna shot Tom a petrified look. He briefly met her gaze, looking equally hopeless.

"Yeah," Harry swayed in their arms. "Guys die all the time in this job!"

B'Elanna asked Ayala, "How far's the hospital?"

Ayala didn't reply.

The hospital was two hours away.

Luckily, "hours" were passing quicker than usual in this holographic world. But how quickly, he wasn't sure.

* * *

"Okay," Sam Wildman said. "Are we finished then? Does everyone have their character down?"

The crew members that would be entering the program were gathered in Sickbay. Ayala had volunteered to dive in first, to stop Neelix, while the rest of the group finished figuring out the plan. Ayala currently lay unconscious on a biobed, wearing a cortical monitor, his mind controlling a holographic body in the program. The Doctor was running another scan on him, while continuing the discussion with the group.

Wildman's question was met with reassuring nods.

The Doctor closed his tricorder and moved away from Ayala. "Then one last time, let's review the plan. Andrews and I will go in first, and get the Bird from the Captain."

"Um," Tal Celes caught the Doctor's attention. "Not sure if you saw, but I had to run to the lavatory, so I missed a bit. Why can't you guys just beam right into the captain's sitting room, and snag the Bird?"

The Doctor explained, "Because the channel Tuvok opened for us to send holograms in can only send them to a certain area in the program. Leola's Diner to be exact. Mr. Ayala had to shanghai a police car and step on the gas to reach Neelix before he killed Mr. Paris."

"Oh."

The Doctor turned to Mariah Henley and Kenneth Dalby. "Henley and Dalby, you two will be waiting outside the holodeck with my mobile emitter, to receive the statue." The two former Maquis gave curt nods. "That will be Phase One of our plan, getting that Bird. While we're up to that, the rest of you will enter the holodeck gradually, as soon as Golwat tells you it's safe, and start cozying up to your officers. Phase two: convincing the senior officers not to kill each other, and figure out a way to get them out of that program. Obviously we'll try the door, assuming that Andrews and I can get it opened to deliver the Bird to Henley and Dalby, but if that fails we'll have to come up with something else." Finally, the Doctor turned to the two people who would be filling his role in Sickbay. "Javin, Blackhorse, you're confident that you've got everything down?"

Lt. Mar Javin, an elderly, un-joined Trill whose spots were lost on his dark skin, nodded. Annalie Blackhorse gave her assurance to the Doctor.

"Good." The Doctor looked around the room. "Any questions?"

"Hey," Naomi Wildman, who was sitting on a bio-bed, tapped Ensign Blackhorse. "How come you're not going in? You're Indian like Chakotay, you could be one of his tribe or something."

Blackhorse smiled weakly. "That's true kid. But the point of this operation isn't to be logical, it's _psychological_. I admire Chakotay, but we've never been close. I wouldn't have much effect on his psyche in there. Besides, I was never much of an actress. I distinctly remember when my class did 'A Christmas Carol,' and I was out-acted by the kid playing Scrooge's corpse."

"Impressive," Icheb said.

"Who were you?" Naomi asked Blackhorse.

"In the play? One of the grave-robbers."

"Cool!"

"Alright," the Doctor cut their conversation short. "Any other questions?"

"The com badges," Chell said. "Explain that to me one more time. You're saying we can communicate with each other, and Voyager, with holographic com badges?"

"Correct. You may've noticed, Mr. Chell, that my com badge activates and deactivates with the rest of me. I have it essentially built into me. I've designed all of your holographic bodies to do the same. But remember, when you're in there, to be discrete with them. Only use them in private, or in an absolute emergency. Anything else?"

Silence.

"Good. Let's get started."

* * *

The Queen's Cabin was as full as it was any other night, but no one was on the stage. Kitty Indiana made her usual rounds, greeting customers and checking on her workers. She looked as elegant as ever, in a black suit-dress with silver pinstripes, her bad eye covered by a matching pinstriped eye-patch, her hair pulled up into regal double-rolls. No one would have guessed that anything was wrong.

When she reached the bar, Kitty rested an arm on the counter and leaned over to address her bartender.

"Lonzak," she said offhandedly, "You know what I think is missing from my club tonight?"

Bald little man replied, "What's that Madame?"

" _Everyone_!" Her blue eye and spiffy patch swept the room. "I haven't seen Annie since she left for break this afternoon. I tried calling her apartment building and no one there could find her. I haven't seen Tommy Chicago or Harry Kimitsu in two days, and now the news man is accusing them of murdering a policeman! My two new hands, Excelsior and Felix, they've been gone since yesterday. Mr. Gardener hasn't reported in, and that nosy Indian hasn't been back to bother me about the Bird yet."

A new voice broke in. "If I might make a suggestion, Madame,"

Kitty turned to face the waiter addressing her. Funny; she didn't remember ever hiring a bald, portly man with skin as blue as Dorothy Gale's farm dress. Though she had to admit, the hue went well with his black tuxedo.

The blue man noticed that she was staring. "Is something wrong Madame?"

Kitty shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr…?"

"Chell," the man replied. "Eddie Chell."

"Mr. Chell," Kitty said. "How do I put this. I've heard of 'colored people,' but this ridiculous."

Chell gave her a stern look. "Is that how you speak to men who've served your country, Miss Indiana? You should look so good after stepping on a landmine."

Kitty gasped. "I'm sorry Mr. Chell! I don't know what came over me…it's been a long couple of nights."

"Understandable!" Chell smiled. "Now, what I was going to say was, if there's something fishy going on around your club, I might recommend asking that fellow over there." He pointed to a bar patron seated at the back of the room, who had his eyes fixed on Indiana. "That fellow's done nothing but watch you since he got here. I'm sure I don't know what his game is, but I just thought you'd ought to know."

Kitty nodded, returning the stranger's stare across the room. "Thank you Mr. Chell."

She nonchalantly pushed herself off the bar counter and strolled through the forest of tables.

The man watching her looked ordinary enough. (He wasn't blue in any case.) He was dressed like a businessman, in a brown pinstriped suit with a dark green bowtie. A matching fedora sat on the table. He was bald save for some brown hair on the sides, with small dark eyes watching her behind round glasses. Though he didn't look old or disabled, he held a fashionable cane, that reminded her of the one Peter Lorre had used in "The Maltese Falcon." She hoped to god this man wouldn't be touching his cane the way Lorre had in the movie, in front of all her customers.

She took a seat next to him, folding her arms on the table. "Can I help you Sir?"

"As a matter of fact you can. I'm here on important business for the F.B.I."

Kitty instantly stiffened.

Perfect. Exactly what she needed right now. _The F.B. goddamn I._

Tilting her head slowly, she said, "I don't know how many times you people need to inspect my club and find me innocent, before you believe that I—"

The man waved a hand. "My apologies Miss Indiana, I must not have expressed myself properly. I didn't mean to imply that I was an F.B.I. agent. I'm a corrupt businessman, like yourself." He held out his hand for a shake. "Dr. Reginald Lewis. Racketeer, Gambler, and man who fixed the World Cup three years in a row." He grinned proudly.

Kitty cocked her head. "The World _Cup_? Did Arnold Rothstein have a copyright on the World Series?"

Dr. Lewis withdrew his hand, his eyes shifting. Finally he said, "I try to be original." He quickly changed the subject. "My point is, I'm not here about your illegal gambling or your ties to organized crime. I'm here about the Bird."

Kitty's eyebrows went up, just for a moment, before she caught herself. "And what 'bird' would that be?"

The man sighed. "Miss Indiana, if you're going to play clueless, this is going to be a very long—oh, hello, who's this?" He craned his neck, looking behind her.

Hesitantly, Kitty turned, and saw two people entering the club. One was a police officer, which instantly sent chills down her spine. But her fear quickly turned to confusion, when she realized that the cop was a Colored man. What on earth was he doing on the white side of town? (Coming off-duty as a bar patron, sure; but in uniform?) He was leading none other than Annie Hanson, who looked like she'd seen better days. She was in her white bathrobe, her blonde hair down and un-brushed. She clutched a man's trench coat around her like a cloak, which the cop had undoubtedly given her.

When Annie and the policeman reached the table, the cop said to Dr. Lewis, "Let's talk somewhere private."

Kitty reluctantly took them to her sitting room, and locked the door. Kitty and Annie faced the cop and Dr. Lewis across the coffee table. By no coincidence, the two men had positioned themselves on the sofa in front of the door.

"Officer Andrews," the cop introduced himself with a British accent, and opened his wallet to reveal a badge. "F.B.I."

Annie's brow knitted at Andrews. "You're not really a local police officer then?"

"Nope, just a disguise. But I've got more power than any California policeman, so you'll still want to do what I tell you."

"So," Kitty placed her hands on her knees. "What can a saloon keeper do to help the F.B.I.?"

Andrews breathed in. "The federal government has reason to believe—what am I saying; we _know_ that there are escaped Nazis in San Francisco. And they're planning an attack on the city."

Kitty and Annie's eyes both widened. Kitty's eye and patch flicked to Annie, whose face was rapidly losing color.

"Nazis," Kitty repeated. "In San Francisco? Three years after the War's been won?"

"I never said it made sense Ca—Madame," the policeman countered. "These people are insane. Who knows what they think they're going to accomplish. All we know is that it involves a bomb, which is disguised as an ancient artifact. A silver, gem-encrusted statue of a bird."

Kitty and Annie looked at each other.

"Now," the policeman shifted on the sofa. "The government is willing to grant lightened sentences, maybe even full pardons, to anyone involved in this bird-statue fiasco, if they help us get that bomb back to Washington."

"Pardons for _any_ crime." Dr. Lewis added. "Why you could probably be a former Nazi yourself and find yourself excused, if you helped us stop these maniacs. After all, America is the land of second-chances."

Annie was staring at Dr. Lewis like he was a saint who'd just descended from the sky. Kitty however was less impressed. She was remembering the clumsy way the doctor had boasted his credentials earlier, about fixing the "World Cup." How suspiciously he'd been acting.

"Nazis," Kitty said flatly. "And the statue is a bomb... I have to admit, I've seen a lot of different people make a lot of different attempts to weasel what's rightfully mine from me. I'll give you two props for creativity. But for future reference, if you want your story to be believable, I'd suggest making the Colored man the crime lord, and the white one the F.B.I. agent. It would make your story a bit more believable."

Andrews chewed his tongue, and Dr. Lewis sighed deeply.

Dr. Lewis turned to Annie. "What do you think Ms. Hanson? Do you think there could be Nazis in San Francisco?"

Annie's lips parted, her words lost.

The doctor checked his wristwatch. "Well it's getting late. It'll be midnight soon—"

"Bruna Rike!" Annie suddenly exclaimed, shooting up from the sofa.

Kitty looked up at her sharply.

Annie swallowed. "She's in San Francisco," she lowered herself back onto the couch. "She's been blackmailing me to get the statuette for her. She claimed she just wanted it to fund Nazis efforts in South America."

Almost angrily, Kitty demanded, "Why the hell didn't tell me you were being blackmailed?"

"She threatened to expose both of us to the law." Annie was practically heaving. "And I knew that if I told you you'd make some rash attempt to fight back that would have backfired."

Working to contain her shock and rage, Kitty said slowly, "'Rash attempt?'...You mean like that 'rash attempt' I made to rescue you from the Nazis in the first place, and spring you out of Europe? I thought we'd earned each other's trust by now!"

Seeming on the verge of tears, Annie added to the cop and the doctor, "Rike has a friend of mine, in the hospital. She'll kill him if I don't deliver the Bird to her by midnight tonight."

Friend? What friend did Annie…Oh, hell. Well, that explained why Charles Liberty hadn't been back for the statue.

Dr. Lewis assured Annie, "We'll do everything to get him out. But first, we need that bomb."

Annie was on the verge of panic. "He has until midnight! It's already—"

Andrews cut her off with equal urgency. "If that bomb goes off he'll be dead anyway!"

Annie's face contorted in confusion, and Kitty became suspicious again.

Andrews urged, "It's not an ordinary bomb. It's capable of wiping out the entire city. It's a new weapon they've been developing in secret. We don't have time to explain."

Kitty leaned back on the couch. "But as long as the Nazis don't have it we're fine. After all, if they could somehow trigger it from afar, then it wouldn't matter to you who had it."

The doctor and Andrews had no response. It was clear from their faces that she'd caught them in a lie.

"And right now they don't have it." Kitty crossed her legs. "I think I agree with Annie. Our focus should be that man whose life ends at midnight. Besides, I think I'd like to see some proof of these Nazis. I personally find this entire scenario very far-fetched."

"Kitty," Annie looked at her mentor urgently, "There is at least one Nazi in town." Annie's face suddenly changed. "But that Nazi did tell me she 'eyes everywhere.'" Annie turned to Dr. Lewis and Andrews with suspicion. "Perhaps Rike realized I'm useless for getting the Bird, and is employing some more creative methods."

Andrews' jaw dropped at the accusation. Then he dropped into a face-palm.

Dr. Lewis licked his lips. "Think of it this way. What would be worse; Miss Hanson is right, you lose a few thousand dollars, and let the Nazis gain funds for long-term efforts that America can stop, or we're right, and tomorrow every person in this room, in this city, is dead?"

Kitty was giving him her unblinking stare-down. "You're not getting that statue until we find Mr. Liberty and I see some proof."

Andrews leaned forward. "What if we told you that it could go off at any minute?"

"You can tell me whatever you want—"

Andrews suddenly left the couch and drew his gun. Daring Kitty or Annie to make a move, he crept backwards towards the coffee counter. Kitty watched him impassively. This was clearly not the reaction the men had been expecting; Dr. Lewis's face knotted nervously. When Andrews reached the counter he knelt to a crouch, pulled the door opened, and looked inside.

It was empty.

Kitty pursed her lips. "I don't know how the hell you figured that hiding spot. But it hardly matters now. I never keep it in the same place for more than a day."

Annie watched Andrews with a clenched jaw, silently asking him if he'd help her rescue Charles now.

Dr. Lewis broke the silence with a click of his cane against the floor. "Well! I need to use the loo if it's alright."

"Go right ahead," Kitty invited. "It's not in there either."

The Doctor made his way to the washroom, and promptly locked himself in.

* * *

In Engineering, Golwat already knew that the Doctor was going to contact her. On the panel, she watched him lock himself in the washroom and turn on the faucet, presumably to drown out the sound of their conversation.

" _Doctor to Gowlat_."

Golwat strained to make out his hushed voice over the sound of the running water.

"I saw Doc," the Bolian replied. "I don't know where the Captain hid the Bird."

" _What do you mean you don't know? You've been monitoring the whole time haven't you?_ "

"Yes, but the footage is jumpy and buggy, remember?" she reminded him, "Relax, I'll just get Ashmore to track its signature—"

"Already trying," the engineer called from across the empty engineering room. "I can't pinpoint it. Something's scrambling my readings." He turned up towards the upper level, where Tassoni and Xiong where still locked in a hacking contest with Seska. "Hey, Tassoni, Xiong!"

"Little busy at the moment," Tassoni replied, the ex-Equinox engineer engrossed in his work.

Kao Li Xiong had apparently heard part of the conversation, and answered Ashmore's question before he asked it. "Yes, Seska's done something…or…actually it might've been us. We've been knocking non-vital systems on and off. Hang on, I'll try to get the holodeck back on sensors."

Ashmore warned, "If Seska notices, it might ruin the entire distraction."

Golwat pursed her blue lips. "You hear all that Doc?"

" _I'm programmed with impeccable hearing_ ," the Doctor replied irritably. " _Yes I heard_."

"Listen Doctor," Golwat was watching the section of the screen that showed Chakotay in the hospital. "Maybe you should put the Bird on hold. The Borg Queen's waking up, and Chakotay's alone with her."

* * *

The Doctor cursed silently. Why the hell couldn't Tuvok have just killed that bitch, instead of simply rendering her unconscious? Or unstrapped Chakotay so he could escape? It was bad enough that Seska was running the program, but on top of that, fate itself seemed to be conspiring against the crew.

It was an old literary cliché for a character to rinse his face in front of a mirror to regain his composure. The Doctor's face was perfectly clean, but he decided to give it a try. Then, falling back into character, he strode back into the sitting room.

Andrews was starting to lose his temper with "Kitty Indiana." "Do you understand what's at stake here? The entire—"

"Andrews," the Doctor strolled over, swinging his cane. "They're right about one thing; Mr. Liberty is running out of time. If the captain wants proof first she can have it."

Kitty laughed. "The Captain?"

The Doctor almost cringed visibly at his blunder, but caught himself. "Don't you recognize a term of endearment when you hear one?" He spun to Annie Hanson. "Now then. Did you say Liberty was in a hospital?"

"Yes." Annie glanced at Andrews. "If you're F.B.I., you can get Charles out of there, can't you?"

Andrews sighed and nodded. "I'm certain I can," he assured her, then stopped when he saw the Doctor's expression.

"You can get us into the hospital," The Doctor said. "But I doubt the Nazi holding Mr. Liberty will respect the authority of an American F.B.I agent. We need a way of getting past her."

Andrews looked around the room, exasperated. "Like what?"

The doctor teetered his cane, thinking it over. "There is a certain drug-market in this city, run by people who are well practiced at in breaking into hospitals. I just might know where to find one of them…"

* * *

The Doctor found Neelix's old friend Wix—known here as "Willy"—smoking in an alley. The Captain and Seven watched from across the street, in Andrews' cop car. The lanky Talaxian looked up curiously as the Doctor approached him.

"Mr. 'Willy,' I presume?" the Doctor tipped his hat.

Blowing out smoke, Willy grunted, "What can I do ya' for, Bub?"

"I hear-talk you deal in morphine, Mr. Willy."

The Talaxian wrinkled his nose, and tossed out his spent cigarette. "Pal, anyone ever tell you you're as subtle as a shoot-out in a Cagney movie? I only sell to customers who know how to be discrete." He turned to leave.

"I'm not interesting in buying drugs from you. I want you to do me a favor, and in return I'll tell you where you can find enough morphine to supply half the addicts California."

Willy paused, looked around, then changed course towards the Doctor. He stopped just close enough for a hushed conversation.

The Doctor whispered, "A friend of mine is being kept at St. Cochrane's hospital, room 42. You'll recognize him by a blue tattoo over his eye. I understand you're friendly with some of the higher-ups at that facility?"

Willy shrugged. "I know people there willing to turn a blind eye to a few missing supplies. But sneakin' a person outta there's a different deal."

"You don't have to get him out. Just get my friends and I in. If you can get me the keys to his room, I'll let you have all his morphine. Sound like a deal?"

* * *

Charles fought against his own fatigue, working to bring just one of his arms up through just one of the straps. Just enough to unbuckle it, that was all he needed. The drugs the "nurses" had given him felt like they'd worn off.

Those drugs had been nasty. He didn't know if Timothy Excelsior really had barged in, knocked out the "nurse," and attempted some kind mind-attack on him, or if that had all been some kind of fever dream. But a lot of what had followed had to have been delusions. Charles remembered seeing the broken door shimmer, and reappear with its busted doorknob newly intact. And he remembered surreal snit-bits of something like memories, that couldn't have been real. They'd come with a feeling comparable to déjà vu. Most of them involved being held prisoner in some large, cold room.

All that mattered right now was that his "nurse," the woman working with Seraphine, had somehow wound up unconscious on the floor. And she was beginning to wake up.

He considered yelling for help again, or just shouting "Fire," even though neither of those had worked so far. Apparently, from what he'd overheard from passing doctors, they thought he was crazy, and paid him no mind.

The nurse gripped the edge of his bed and pulled herself up. She looked around the room, sighed heavily, and then headed for the telephone to make a call.

"Seraphine? What happened, what time is it?" Seraphine's putrid voice came over the line, but Charles couldn't make out the words. "I see…" She looked at the clock on the wall. "It's midnight. Annie still doesn't have the Bird for me. Can I kill him now?" This old bat's voice was so sickeningly soft and silky, it was almost worse than Seraphine's. "...A fair question. I was going to shoot him up with some arsenic, but now I'm thinking that's too kind. I want Annie to remember this." She smiled slowly, as Seraphine asked another question. "I was thinking of the Melbourne Method. ...That's right, two hours. And his morphine's worn off by now, so he'll be feeling it…Maybe there will be time for Annie to drop by and to watch…Thank you Seraphine. You have no idea how satisfying this will be."

The "nurse" returned to Charles and threw the sheet off of his upper body, leaving him covered from the waist down. But besides his bandages and the straps, he was completely exposed. He suddenly realized that with the way the straps were positioned—one running over his chest and the other over his wrists and hips—his entire abdominal cavity was exposed.

He winced as she caressed his bare arm.

"What a waste," she muttered, "A perfect form. If you were just a few shades lighter, and didn't have that savage symbol on your face, you'd be flawless." She emphasized the last sentence by pinching up some of his damp bangs to examine his tattoo, then let them fall back in place.

She took a hold of his chin. Charles was a strong man, but her fingers alone felt like iron. "I see you've given up on the screaming." She cocked her head. "But it's in your nature."

Where the hell had Charles heard something like that before?

Charles swallowed, and spoke to her for the first time. "What do you know about my 'nature?' You don't know anything about me. What did I do to you?"

She replaced the gag in his mouth, tying it even tighter than before.

She answered his question: "It's more the fact that you exist than anything else."

She left him to fetch a tray of operating tools.

"You know, I've never actually used the Melbourne Method before." She wheeled the tray over to him. "Really, I just heard about it in a play once." She picked out a scalpel and hovered it over his stomach. "But they never actually showed it being done, or explained how it worked." The robotic way she held the scalpel made it clear that she had no training as a nurse. "Guess I'll just have to improvise."

* * *

Kitty, Annie, Dr. Lewis, and Andrews moved quietly down the hallway, with Willy leading the way. Annie hadn't taken time to change out of her robe, and wore Andrews' gray trench coat buttoned shut over it. (Kitty had loaned her some shoes.)

"There we go!" Willy said, looking down the row of doors. "Room 42!" He bounded forward, pulling out the keys.

The others remained at their steady pace, not wanting to arouse suspicion.

Willy shoved the key into the lock, then stopped and peered through the window. "Oh, it looks like he's in the middle of surgery." The drug dealer was clueless. "Should we come back later?"

" _What_?" Dr. Lewis exclaimed.

They all broke into a run, but none faster than Annie. She slammed into the door, staring ahead fiercely. Before anyone could stop her, Annie drew her pistol from her coat, and shoved Willy aside (his hand still on the keys). Through the window, she saw the back of Bruna Rike, going to work on Charles, with his head turned away, visibly cringing in pain. With only the tiny window as her guide, Annie took aim with her gun pressed against the door, and fired.

The gunshot cracked through the hall, stopping Kitty, Andrews and the doctor in their tracks.

Bruna's body jolted and stiffened, and the bloodspot began to form in her back. The Nazi slackened and tumbled to the ground. A scalpel clattered to the floor next to her, its blade glistening bright red. Bruna floundered on the floor, still alive.

Stone-faced, Annie grabbed Willy's hand and forced the key the rest of the way, popping the door opened. Charles's head turned sharply, but just for the moment Annie ignored him. She came around Bruna Rike, who was weakly pushing herself up.

"Anita," Bruna rasped, as Annie took aim once more. "I should have told you, before, how much you—"

Annie put a hole through in Bruna's forehead.

In the doorway, Willy wrinkled his nose and backed away. The drug dealer made a sound like a terrified flying monkey, and tore off down the hall.

Annie barely noticed. She mechanically shoved her gun back into her coat pocket, and turned to face Charles. For a moment her eyes lingered on the opening in his abdomen. She forced her eyes away. She moved around the bed, and found herself cradling his head. He shut his eyes tightly and nuzzled into her. She began running her disfigured hand through his hair, and actually heard herself shushing him.

* * *

The Doctor, Andrews and "Kitty" caught up just in time to see Annie kill the Nazi. The Doctor immediately headed for "Charles" to look at the wound. Andrews and Kitty moved a bit slower, stopping in front of Bruna's body.

"That proof enough?" Andrews asked Kitty.

The Doctor immediately began rummaging the surgical tools next to the bed. Kitty came up next to him, her blue eye and pinstriped patch sweeping Charles' opened belly.

In a low voice, Kitty exclaimed, "He can't survive that!"

"I'm sorry, have you attended medical school?" the Doctor snapped, going to work.

She hissed, "Have you _noticed_ what she did to his—?"

"Have you noticed that medicine advances every year?" the Doctor countered irritably. "Andrews, the holodeck is hooked up to the replicators, the panel is behind the window. I need twenty milligrams lectrazine. Now."

As Andrews ran to the wall panel, he asked the Doctor, "I don't suppose we can just replicate a dermal regenerators?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Only organic substances unfortunately. The lectrazine's all I'll need to save his life. We can take care of the details later."

Andrews hesitated before touching the hologrid. "We disabled Seska's booby trap, so I won't get fried like Tuvok, right?"

" _Yes!_ The lectrazine, Lieutenant!"

Andrews nodded quickly, and replicated the needed chemical.

Kitty glanced around the room. Annie was distracted cradling Charles, and "Dr. Lewis" and "Officer Andrews" weren't answering questions at the moment. She made a face, apparently dismissing their technobabble as FBI talk.

Folding her arms, Kitty warned, "Someone will have heard those gunshots."

Andrews drew his gun and wallet, flicking the latter opened to show off his badge. "F.B.I," he reminded Kitty. "Nothing to see here!" He moved to the doorway to keep watch.

Annie made the mistake of untying Charles' gag, allowing his cries of pain to emerge.

The doctor said forcibly, "Someone get him some anesthesia or painkillers! He'll attract attention!"

Andrews checked the empty hall, then reluctantly left the door to find the drugs.

Kitty hissed at the doctor, " _You'll_ attract attention with your shouting!"

Still stroking Charles' hair, Annie asked stiffly, "What did she do to him?"

The Doctor remembered Seven's "failsafe" device. It was a miracle she hadn't feinted again. He guessed it was only her habitual emotional control saving her now. Truth, the hologram had no idea what "Bruna Rike" had thought she was doing to "Charles." All he could say was that she'd begun redecorating Chakotay's insides, and if the Doctor didn't seal off the cuts and get everything back in its proper place in the next few minutes the commander would die. Seven, of course, didn't need to hear any of that, and frankly neither did his patient.

"I'll tell you at another time," the Doctor finally said. "It's imperative you keep your blood pressure low Miss. I recognize your skin condition. Stress for you can prove fatal."

Annie and Kitty both threw the Doctor shocked looks.

"I've never heard of that," Kitty said.

"It's a new discovery," the Doctor said. "You'll probably be fine Miss Hanson, but please, for your own sake and, and Charles,'"

Annie swallowed and turned away from the wound the Doctor was stitching up.

"Morphine found!" Andrews suddenly called triumphantly, and stabbed Charles in the arm with a syringe needle.

Charles' cringed, then went happily limp in Annie's arms.

All (sober) faces turned to stare at Andrews.

Andrews licked his lips, and said quietly, "We're in a hurry, yes?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes and shook his head back down to his work. "Go watch the door Andrews."

* * *

"Alright," Golwat said for the benefit of everyone in Engineering. "The Borg Queen's dead. The Doc, Andrews, Seven and the Captain are in the hospital with Chakotay." Her indigo eyes moved to another part of the screen. "Ayala still hasn't reached the hospital with the others, but when he does I think it'll be a good time to send in Jenkins."

"By 'the others,'" Ashmore said, "You mean Torres, Paris, Kim and Neelix."

"Yes."

"So what about Tuvok? What's he been up to this whole time?"

Golwat sighed. "He's wandering around the city, distributing mind-melds like they're candy."

Ashmore glanced at the screen on the console. Tuvok was on the sidewalk, performing a double-mind-meld with Maggie from "Fair Haven" and Freya from "Beowulf," both dressed like '40s housewives, and both looking very bored.

Ashmore made a face. "And Seska?"

"In some basement, still trying to out-hack Tabor and Xiong."

Ashmore grimaced. "Let's hope they can keep her distracted long enough for the Doc to get that statue."

* * *

"Kitty," Annie looked up at her mentor. "I believe them now, about the bomb. They wouldn't be helping him if they were just after money."

Watching Dr. Lewis stitch Charles up, Kitty said quietly, "You're right about that…but if they were really F.B.I., I think they'd be more concerned with the general populace than with one man. I'm also wondering why we weren't swarmed with F.B.I. agents and taken into custody the minute I refused to hand the Bird over." Her eyes flicked to Andrews, who was exchanging a dubious glance with the doctor.

Dr. Lewis finally sighed. "I'm concentrating. Andrews, why don't you tell them."

The cop blinked. "Tell them…?"

"The details. Why the entire F.B.I. can't be here at once."

"Right," Andrews refused to meet anyone's eye. "Right." He cleared his throat. "The, F.B.I…has its hands a bit full." Relaxing a bit, he admitted, "There are bombs like this all across the country. The F.B.I. can't be everywhere at once. For the sake of planetary security we weren't supposed to tell you the magnitude of the—"

" _Planetary_ security?" Kitty repeated.

The cop's eyes flared. Kitty interpreted this to mean that he'd revealed information the F.B.I. had ordered him not to.

Kitty began thinking aloud. "Then these bombs aren't just all over America…they're all over the globe!"

Dr. Lewis and Andrews looked at each other.

Dr. Lewis nodded. "Yes ma'am, that's about the size of it."

Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. Of course the F.B.I. wouldn't send its best officers and criminal contacts to measly old California. The top guns were probably all in Washington D.C., New York, Huston…

"The piano." Kitty said.

Annie and Andrews looked up. The doctor wouldn't let himself be distracted, but she could see she at least partially had his attention.

Kitty elaborated: "The Bird is in the piano."

Annie's eyes widened subtlety. She played at that piano every other day. The irony was probably enraging.

"I've looked in that piano," the singer began.

Kitty shook her head. "It's in a secret compartment."

Annie's jaw tightened and she looked away, probably wishing she'd gone at the piano with a pickax.


	16. Stalemate

The Doctor and Andrews chanced discussing what to do about the "bomb" in front of the Captain and Seven, hoping that any 24th century jargon would be dismissed as F.B.I. talk. That was just one of many things that made the situation awkward. The Doctor hoped any discomfort showing on his face would be attributed to concern for his patient.

The Doctor had repaired all the damage to Chakotay's organs, and was now sealing him up. The hologram felt guilty, subjecting his commanding officer to such a backwards, primitive form of treatment. He'd once snarked about "using a needle and thread" for Chakotay's boxing injuries, to which the first officer had replied, "Be my guest!" The Doctor had fantasized about someday getting the chance, but only for something like a cut on the forehead; nothing like this.

His apprehension increased when Andrews leaned over and whispered, "Doc, are those stitches holographic?"

 _Oh hell…_

"Let's worry about one thing at a time," the Doctor replied.

Chakotay was unconscious, due to fatigue or the drugs or trauma, and Seven was still holding him affectionately. The Doctor recalled how he'd stumbled in on her holographic Chakotay fantasy. As far as he knew, Chakotay and Seven had never initiated a relationship in the real world. This incident however seemed to prove that the two had genuine feelings for each other. The Doctor knew he should be happy for Seven, but the jealousy was undeniable.

The captain was watching Seven and Chakotay with an unreadable expression. Rumors had circulated the ship, years before, about some possible feelings between the Captain and First Officer. The Doctor had never believed such stories, and hoped to god now that they weren't true. Granted, if Janeway stole Chakotay, that would free up Seven; but the ex-drone had made it clear to the Doctor that she viewed him as family. So he dismissed such fantasies as childish. Actually, love-triangles (or squares, or dodecahedrons) aside, this might be the perfect opportunity to pry some memories from the Captain…

"You look pensive, Miss Indiana," the Doctor said.

One eyebrow on the captain's face moved slightly. "I'm just trying to figure out…" she touched her lips, giving her head a tiny shake. "….who he reminds me of." She nodded to Chakotay. "I've only known Mr. Liberty for a few days. But I swear, he reminds me of… _someone_."

Removing the historical costume, and silencing the 20th century slang, might've helped in jogging the captain's memory of her first officer. In essence, Chakotay was momentarily stripped of his disguise.

Carefully, the Doctor asked, "Someone close to you?"

"Very close," Kitty said quietly. "But I'm not sure in what way. At first I thought he reminded me of some ex-boyfriend, or a coworker. But now I'm thinking someone like a family member. One of my cousins maybe?"

Well, that was a relief, as far as Seven and Chakotay's romance was concerned.

Andrews tried, "Maybe someone you knew when you and Annie were in Europe?"

Seven suddenly withdrew her hands from Chakotay, and stood up straight. "We should retrieve that bomb from the piano. I'll get it."

"Woa," Andrews raised a hand. "I think we can take it from here, can't we Doc?"

The Doctor thought it over. With Seven's failsafe device, letting her leave Chakotay might be the safest idea. But on the other hand, when "Charles Liberty" regained consciousness, it would work a lot more into their favor to have him greeted by the woman he loved, rather than the woman who'd had him tied to a chair and beaten.

The Doctor finally said, "Why doesn't Miss Indiana go? She knows her own club better than anyone, I'm sure. I think it might do Mr. Liberty good to have you here when he wakes up, Annie."

"I doubt that." Seven swallowed, determinately not looking at Chakotay.

"Annie," Kitty put her hand on her pupil's arm. "I realize you're uncomfortable with him knowing the truth about you. But if you intent for this relationship to have any lasting—"

"I don't." Seven snapped.

The Doctor searched for something to say, but was suddenly interrupted by a rap at the door. Through the tiny window, they saw a blonde nurse looking at them urgently. Andrews opened the door to reveal Amelia Jenkins, in a costume that made the Doctor think of that famous WWII photograph of the kissing soldier and nurse. The nightshift pilot's short blonde hair was oiled into fashionable "finger waves" around her head.

"Andrews!" Her pale blue eyes darted to the captain and Seven, and then Chakotay's unconscious body, before she caught herself. "I, I'm Nurse Jenkins. I was told to let you know that we just got some patients in who might know something about…." She looked again at the three brainwashed officers.

"The bomb?" Andrews finished for her.

"Yes! And you partner's with them, Lt…"

Damn, what should they call Ayala? The name was human, and possible for the American 1940s, but it would certainly stand out. And it was imperative that no one use any names that might catch the attention of Seska or any of the holograms she might end up speaking to.

"Gold." Andrews finally said. "Officer Gold, that's my partner. He's here?"

Jenkins nodded. "Yeah. He's here, and awaiting orders."

"Are they all in one room?" Andrews asked.

"Yes. Right down the hall."

"Alright," the Doctor returned to Chakotay. "When I'm finished here, let's wheel Mr. Liberty down there and we'll all discuss the Bird."

Seven looked on the verge of nausea. "What, exactly, will we be discussing about the Bird?"

"Everything." The Doctor said sternly. "I'm sorry Miss Hanson, but we can't let all of you continue to keep each other in the dark about certain facts. It's just what Miss Seraphine wants after all, to divide and conquer."

Seven's face twitched. "Seraphine. That's the other woman, who was working with Rike?" she glanced down at the dead Nazi.

Andrews jumped. "Bugger me backwards, I knew we forgot something!"

The security guard took a hold of the dead woman's ankles, and dragged the corpse to the back of the room. He began searching the cupboards, probably for a sheet to cover the body.

"I thought that wasn't a concern," Seven said, watching Andrews. "What happened to 'F.B.I., Nothing to see here'?"

"Yes," Andrews nodded in agreement. "But the less attention we attract, the better."

Jenkins offered, "Aya—Officer Gold, he's already taken care of the doctors who heard the gunshots earlier. He told them someone committed suicide."

Andrews wrinkled his nose at the gunshots in Bruna's back and forehead. "Someone bloody flexible."

* * *

Seska's hologram swore.

She was a better engineer than any of these Starfleet or Maquis imbeciles by far; but their tactic was becoming increasingly relentless, and she was battling multiple engineers at once. She felt like a Bajoran Hara-cat trying to fight off a swarm of Night Stingers. She'd tried sending an energy surge out to kill them, but they always blocked her attempts.

She decided to withdraw her efforts, make them think they were winning for a few moments, while she plotted her next move.

* * *

"Ignore non-vital systems," Xiong warned Tassoni. "Seska would go for them to distract us."

Tassoni squinted at the screen. "Do the food replicators count as 'non-vital?' I think we'll need those."

Xiong saw the energy surge forming a second too late. "Angelo get—!"

The plasma burst sent Tassoni over the railing. Xiong found herself leaving her post and gripping the railing, to look down at her comrade's smoking body. Golwat was pressing her blue fingers to Tassoni's neck, searching for a pulse. The Bolian hit her combadge.

"Golwat to Sickbay, Crewman Tassoni's dead. I'm beaming him over, in case you can revive him." Golwat looked up, and her blue eyes widened. " _Xiong_!"

Xiong pressed herself to the floor just before the second burst flew from the console. She clung to the railing as the volt shot over her head, hot tears running from her shut eyes.

* * *

Satisfied, Seska left her console. She figured it would be a while before anyone tried breaking into her program again. She checked her watch. Bruna Rike had begun "the Melbourne method" on Chakotay about half an hour ago—by the holo-program's time of course. She'd said it would take two hours, so that meant Seska still had time to drop by for a final visit. She ran up the old wooden stairs, and exited the dark basement she was hacking from. Once on the street, she hailed down a cab, and directed the driver to take her to the hospital.

By now, Seska's hologram was long past the feeling she'd been programed to have for Chakotay. The real Seska had admired many things about him. His courage and wit in battle were worthy of a Cardassian, yet he openly displayed a gentleness that Cardassians discouraged. She'd been willing to look past his primitive superstitions and childish ideals. She'd given him more than any other spy would have. She'd convinced the Kazon Maje not to kill him, when they'd taken him prisoner. She'd tried to give him a child—his _only_ child—so some part of him would live on, in the likely event that his stupid loyalties to the Maquis or Captain Janeway or his primitive culture's values got him killed. She even knew (from Chakotay's personal log) that when Voyager was split into various time frames a few months back, the resurrected Seska had offered Chakotay a fresh start with her, in exchange for his life. But nothing she did was good enough. Instead he was now falling for Janeway's pet drone.

The last things remaining that Seska liked about Chakotay—his breathtaking eyes, his physique, that voice—now just felt like some cruel taunt. She would take great satisfaction in seeing that body mutilated, and might even want to take part in it.

She hopped out of the cab and marched through the hospital doors, going right past the front desk. As far as the hospital staff knew, Seska worked here. The woman at the desk wore the face of Crewman Kaplan, a yellowshirt who'd died on an away mission several years back. Seska had pulled many faces from old Voyager programs, when re-designing Tom Paris's story. That was why she didn't bat an eye when she passed a cop in a hurry, who looked identical to Lt. Ayala; or when she bumped into a nurse that looked like that blonde nightshift pilot.

The nurse gasped, and froze, staring at Seska with wide blue eyes. Seska had no patience for these twentieth-century morons, and shoved past her.

Here she was, Room 42. Seska put her hand on the doorknob, but the door was suddenly yanked opened from the inside. She found herself staring into the shocked face of Lt. Andrews, the black security guard who was nearly always teamed up with Lt. Ayala.

Bruna Rike wasn't there. But a crowd of Voyager crewmembers was. The Doctor and Janeway were holding the edges of Chakotay's bed, apparently preparing to wheel it out the door. Also there was that Borg drone. Though they were all clearly caught off guard, the group stared at Seska as if they all knew exactly who she was, and what she was doing.

Seska threw the door shut just before Andrews drew his gun, and bolted.

From down the hall, she heard Ayala shout, "Freeze!"

 _What in the name of the Prophets?_

Seska tore down the hallway until she reached the water closet. She slammed against the restroom door, and rushed inside. It was a single-stalled bathroom, one that allowed the user to lock the door. After throwing the bolt, she reached into her fur coat and fished out the largest gun she had with her, a pistol.

They were inside the holodeck, the other Voyager crewmembers, and their hologram doctor. They'd broken into her program. _How?_ How the hell could they be in here? She'd checked it over. No one could get in. Definitely no human, and she was certain no hologram could either, unless she programed it.

And what about Chakotay, Janeway, the drone? Was the interface broken? Did they have their memories back? The experiment she'd performed on Chakotay in the hospital had proven that his true identity still ran strong, influencing his "memories" as Charles Liberty, and sometimes seeping right through them.

At the beginning, when she'd first programed the interface, the intention had been to give her victims brand new, completely random identities. Yet somehow, their minds unconsciously gravitated towards the traits most familiar to them. Even with their environments changed and their memories wiped, "Kitty" was still an insufferable control-freak; "Charles" was still stuck on his primitive ideals; the drone was still obsessed with pointless guilt, and Paris and Torres were still obsessed with each other. Seska had never had an identity that unbelievably strong to call her own. It was probably a luxury enjoyed by lower species, the gift of a simpler mind. But it still filled her with a boiling rage.

Voices, outside the door. The knob giggled, as someone tried to force their way inside.

"Computer," she said. "Are there any—"

She stopped, remembering that she'd disabled all verbal communication with Voyager's computer from this holodeck.

Behind the mirror over the sink, she knew there was a hologrid. Seska didn't have time to remove the mirror from the wall. She brought the butt of her gun into the glass a few times, giving it a few spider web cracks until it finally shattered, broken shards raining into the sink. She began to type frantically at the console, then withdrew her hand when she nicked it on one of the remaining glass shards on the mirror's frame. She stopped short of putting her bleeding hand into her mouth, and returned to hacking.

There were no organic life-forms in this program, except the senior officers she had captured. Everyone else was a hologram. She scrolled through the files, to see if any new holograms had been added to the program. Sure enough, a handful of new ones had been downloaded, all of them while she'd been busy having an engineering battle with Voyager's lesser crewmembers. Even in this holographic body, she could feel the rage firing up inside her. To be outsmarted by Chakotay, Janeway, or her old friend Torres, that was angering enough. But to be had by these rank-less insects—

A gunshot interrupted Seska's thoughts. A second followed, and she saw the doorknob get blown clean off. She brought her own pistol up, backing against the wall. The door swung inward, and in stepped Tuvok's two security guards (dressed as policemen), and the Doctor (in some dirt-colored suit, with dorky looking spectacles). All three pointed pistols at her.

"I'm curious," the Doctor taunted, "After killing you, where is it you'll go next? One of the shuttle crafts?"

Heaving, Seska spat, "You obviously don't have the upper hand, or you'd have killed me already!"

"You're right," the Doctor admitted. "We've no idea how to shut down this program, or the computer virus that you've disguised as a gem-encrusted paperweight. If you tell us, maybe we _won't_ shoot you, sending your program to some other vessel, track that vessel down, and eradicate your program from existence for good."

Seska smiled, and shook her head. "You do that, your senior officers will never get their memories back, and they'll tear each other apart."

"They seemed to be getting along alright," Andrews said.

"Not for long!" Seska assured him. "My holograms are programmed to push them all to the edge, and they're not going to let up! When 'Miss Indiana' hears from 'Mayhew' and a dozen reliable sources that you're all just a rival gang from New York here to fool her into giving over the Bird, whose story do you think she'll believe? You think Neelix is gonna let up when he finds out that Tom and B'Elanna really did kill his 'sweetings'?"

Ayala's eyes narrowed. "Why do you need your holograms to put ideas into their heads? Can't you just tweek your brainwashing technique to make them all want to kill each other, no reasons required?"

Seska's jaw tightened.

A grin spread on the Doctor's face. "You haven't figured out how to do that, have you! You could only manipulate their memories, not their wills. And you only did it once, with that initial interface. Let me guess: that brainwashing was a one-time operation. It probably took you months to come up with it, and you can't give them all a new injection of mind-control just like that," the Doctor snapped his fingers.

"Hey," Andrews suddenly smiled. "I wonder what Neelix will say, when he finds out that he only saw his wife's _twin sister_ dead, and the real Kaaren shows up alive and well! When she tells him it was all the work of a woman named Seraphine—"

Now it was Seska's turn to gloat. "Nice try, Andrews! But I've got this program fixed. No character can be revived from the dead, and no new hologram can too closely mimic any preexisting one. Even if you tried to download another hologram of Kes, the program would reject it!"

The Doctor countered, "We can still send in an army of new holograms."

"So can I!"

Ayala looked at the Doctor, then at Seska. They all knew that they could not, in fact, send in a literal _army_ of new holograms. The program would only accept one or two new additions at a time.

Seska reminded them, "You know that when you kill me, the program ends, just like in 'Insurrection Alpha.' And that means the Bird goes back into the computer, the virus goes off, and you all lose your life-support."

The Doctor finally admitted, "Seems we really are at a stalemate."

Without breaking his trained expression, Ayala demanded, "What is it you want, Seska?"

"You people _are_ slow." Seska scoffed. "And that's how I want you all to die. Slowly and painfully."

"If that were true," Ayala replied, "then why haven't you shot yourself in the head, to end this program and send the virus into the computer?"

Seska's jaw clenched again, but she managed a smile. "Well I want to be around to see it happen."

The Doctor wasn't convinced. "No, Seska. I think you want to live. I think that's why you created this hologram of yourself in the first place. You knew you were in a dangerous position, a Cardassian spy on a ship filled with angry Maquis, in the middle of the Delta Quadrant with no Cardassian Order to call for help. Whether you acknowledge it or not, somewhere, in the back of your program, you know you want to live."

If the Doctor's words rang true, Seska refused to admit it to herself. But she certainly had no qualms about playing along.

"Even if I did," Seska said, deliberately letting an edge slip into her voice, "I can't shut this program off. No one can."

"With all do respect Seska," the Doctor argued. "It's a bit arrogant to think that there's no solution, just because you couldn't find one."

"I'm the best engineer on this ship! Always have been."

" _Torres_ is our best engineer." Ayala snapped.

Seska blew through her lips. "You mean _Billie_ Torres, the secretary? Good luck enlisting her help!"

Seska wondered how "Billie Torres" would react when she learned that her friend "Seraphine" had been working with a Nazi all along. And what she'd done to Charles. From Voyager's logs, Seska knew that B'Elanna Torres hadn't reacted too strongly when she'd learned that Seska was a Cardassian; but that same year, a Vidiian scientist had split B'Elanna into her human and Klingon halves, resulting in some psychological weirdness for the half-Klingon that lasted over a year. To make a long story short, B'Elanna hadn't quite been herself for a while. The real, half-Klingon B'Elanna, no doubt had plenty to say and do to Seska, whether she knew her as a Cardassian spy or a Nazi sympathizer.

Come to think of it, Torres might be exactly what Seska needed right now.

Seska breathed in deeply. "If you morons think you can fix this mess, be my guest. I've got nothing more to gain or lose."

She turned up her pistol in surrender, hoping that the hologram and the guards were as stupid as they looked. All three of them watched her suspiciously, none more than Ayala. The Doctor took her gun, and the other two immediately began searching Seska for other weapons. They threw off her fur coat, and Ayala found the little handgun in the inner pocket. Andrews pulled a switchblade from the pocket of Seska's dress. Then, acting reluctant, Seska let the three of them lead her at gunpoint out of the restroom and back down the hall.

The Doctor pushed opened the door of the ward where Harry, Neelix and Chakotay were now recovering. That nightshift-pilot was standing over Harry Kim. All the other senior officers were there, sans Tuvok. The deranged Vulcan was probably still wandering the streets somewhere. Chakotay had regained consciousness, and B'Elanna was squeezing his hand like a sister. When the door opened, B'Elanna's eyes flared, and she left her friend's bed.

"Seraphine!" Billie roared through her teeth.

The Doctor held up a hand. "B'Ela—Miss, please,"

B'Elanna stopped inches away from Seska's face, ignoring the Doctor. Seska had never seen a pregnant woman look so menacing, not even when looking in a mirror.

B'Elanna pointed back at Chakotay. " _You_ did that to him?!"

Seska's eyebrows turned up innocently. "Billie no, you're misunderstanding, I'd never do that to a man I love! That's why I always had someone else do it for me. Just like in Paris, when we needed a few Ally codes. You remember that, don't you Charles?"

B'Elanna lunged at Seska, knocking her clean through the arms of Ayala and Andrews, and onto the floor. The Doctor and security guards immediately pulled back their guns; naturally, no one was going to point a weapon near a heavily pregnant woman. Seska let B'Elanna smash her head repeatedly into the floor. Being a hologram, Seska didn't feel anything but some annoying dizziness. It gave Seska time to reach into one of the places Andrews had been too much of a gentleman to search; her overly stuffed bra. Out from it she pulled a tiny handgun, and that stopped B'Elanna in her tracks.

With her free hand, Seska snagged a handful of B'Elanna's hair, and pulled her up to a standing position. Everyone stopped in their tracks, when they saw Seska pressing the gun against the pregnant woman's forehead.

"Another move and they both die." Seska's eyes flicked down to B'Elanna's stomach.

Tom Paris's face had gone white. The Doctor looked like he'd just lost a patient.

Seska yanked B'Elanna's hair, and the half-Klingon took the hint, stepping backwards while Seska led her down the hall.

"I should warn you," Seska said. "I'm feeling very jumpy right now. Especially in my fingers."

When Seska reached the door at the end of the hall, she jerked her head to the terrified holographic janitor. He swallowed, and opened the door for them. Seska led B'Elanna backwards down the short staircase, into the parking lot. B'Elanna gasped as she tripped on a step; luckily, Seska had programmed her hologram to have her Cardassian strength, even when her face looked Bajoran.

"Now," Seska scanned the parking lot. "Which car is mine?"


	17. Just Like Old Times

Billie Torres awoke tied to an uncomfortable wooden chair. She was in a cold basement, with a low ceiling and brick walls. From the dust and cobwebs that covered the various crates and boxes around the room, she figured it had been abandoned for some time. Movement was almost impossible. Her wrists and ankles were bound at opposite ends of the same rope, which wrapped in the middle around the bar between the chair's legs. More than anything else—even more than killing Seraphine—Billie wanted to wrap her arms around her belly to protect her unborn child. Would it have been too much to ask for Seraphine to tie her arms in front of her? Of course, Seraphine probably wanted the baby exposed, to terrorize Billie as much as possible.

Seraphine hadn't bothered to gag her. And after screaming for help several times, Billie finally realized that they were in a place where no one could hear them. Where this basement was, she had no idea; the last thing she remembered was being dragged to Seraphine's car, and knocked out with some kind of chemical-dipped cloth.

She turned her head at the sound of movement. Seraphine was working at some strange machine on the wall. It looked like a tiny television screen, but she typed at like a typewriter. Nazi technology, Billie guessed. For the moment, Billie's rage had worn out, under the weight of her fear and confusion, and she was able to speak with surprising calm.

"Why are you doing this Seraphine?"

"Doing what?" the other woman asked without looking at her.

Billie's eyes rolled skyward, in mock thought. "Threatening a pregnant woman, disemboweling a man you claimed to love, working with Nazis, murdering that blond, wearing that hideous dress—"

Seraphine almost looked offended. "I am _not_ working with Nazis! I worked with _a_ Nazi."

Billie scoffed. "That's not what Dr. Lewis told us!"

Seraphine's eyes flared. She stepped away from the wall, and placed a gloved hand on her hip. "What exactly did the doctor tell you?"

Billie's mouth shut, and she stared at Seraphine defiantly.

Seraphine swiped a pistol off a cluttered desk and pressed the barrel into Billie's pregnant stomach. Billie let out a screaming gasp. She started down at the gun, panting frantically. Seraphine's mad eyes said she was capable of anything.

" _What did he tell you_?"

"He told us about the bombs!" Billie said quickly. "And the Nazis!"

Billie couldn't tell if the look on Seraphine's face was fear or confusion. She probably had no idea how this doctor knew about her plans. In fact, Billie herself didn't know; Dr. Lewis hadn't quite gotten around to a proper introduction before Seraphine had kidnapped her.

"What did he tell you, about the Nazis and the bombs?"

Billie spoke as fast as she could. "He said you had bombs all over the world. You're trying to make a comeback for the Third Reich. You've disguised your explosive device as a bird statue, or put it in a statue. You worked with a woman named Rike, who blackmailed some singer to get the bomb for her." Tears were beginning to form. "Seraphine, please!"

Seraphine stared at her with such hate, Billie was sure she was going to pull the trigger. Billie could feel her heart pounding at a rate unlike any before. And then, Seraphine suddenly withdrew the gun. Billie let out a breath. Seraphine glanced at her pistol and gave a barely audible laugh, as if it had all been a joke. She dropped her hands to her sides, and began pacing the room, still clutching the gun.

"You probably think that baby's gonna solve all your problems, don't you."

Billie was too busy heaving to ask why anyone would think something so absurd. But she still had the energy to shoot her former friend a look that demanded, _what the hell are you talking about_?

"I know," Seraphine's brown eyes wandered the ceiling, almost like she was reminiscing. "You finally managed to get your flyboy where you wanted him, but even when he's got nowhere else to turn, he still doesn't want to be with a freak like you. So how do you fix it?" Seraphine practically shouted, "Well what brings people together more than babies! But even with you carrying his child, even with your combined DNA, he still won't have anything to do with you! It's like you're some kind of disease!"

The depths of Seraphine's evil had been made clear to Billie hours ago, but now she realized that this woman was also insane. Not "disturbed," not "mentally ill," not "confused," simply goddamn batshit insane.

"Seraphine," Billie said softly, "… _what_?"

"Shut up." Seraphine snapped.

The Frenchwoman (if she even _was_ French) returned to that odd wall panel, and sighed deeply. Then her eyes narrowed, as if she'd just had a spark of inspiration, and she began typing away.

"I think this story could use some new characters," Seraphine muttered. "Well, not really new."

* * *

All faces in Sickbay were grim.

Currently, Sickbay's population consisted of Mar Javin and Annalie Blackhorse, the two science officers left to fill in for the Doctor, and the handful of volunteers waiting to enter the program. For several minutes, everyone had hoped that Crewman Angelo Tassoni would be revived. Mar and Annalie had just declared the cause lost, and were covering Angelo with a sheet.

"I was gonna set them up," Annalie said quietly. "Him and Kao-Li. They were both so...energetic."

Samantha Wildman asked stiffly, "You're sure Seska can't kill us when we're in the program?"

"Oh she can kill you," Annalie sighed. "But only in the program. You'll be fine out here."

"But once your character dies," Mar warned, "you can't reenter the game. And keep in mind what kind of affect that would have on the senior staff. They won't know you're not really dead."

The group assured him that they understood.

Mar tapped his com badge. "Javin to Golwat. Update."

The female Bolian's voice replied: "Torres is in a cell with Seska. We can't pinpoint the location out here, the spoon-head's got it masked. Tuvok's lost somewhere in the subway tunnels. Ayala, Andrews and Paris are searching for Seska and Torres. Everyone else is in that hospital room, with the Doc and Jenkins. I'd say if you send someone in, get someone who can help Ayala and Andrews. Oh, and it would probably a good idea to get the Wildmans and Icheb in there, before Seska's holograms turn the Captain and Seven in the wrong direction."

Naomi answered for the two officers: "Acknowledged!"

* * *

The hospital room was uncomfortably quiet.

Officer Andrews and Officer Gold had gone to chase Seraphine, and rescue Billie. Tommy Chicago, naturally, had insisted upon joining them. The rest of the group had then listened to Dr. Lewis sum up the situation about the bird-bomb, which led to some very uncomfortable conversations. Annie Hanson was staring silently out the window, as far away from Charles' bed as possible. Charles was staring off into space. Seraphine's betrayal was likely making it difficult for him to believe Annie now, when she said she'd left her Nazi ideology behind in Germany.

Ned Feelix pushed himself up from his bed, his leg freshly bandaged.

"Here," Dr. Lewis handed the strange-looking man his cane. "You can probably use this more than I can."

Ned thanked the Doctor and took the cane.

Everyone in the room was stealing glances or outright staring at Annie. Even Harry Kimitsu, who was struggling to breathe through his chest wound, seemed mind-blown by her confession.

"This is ridiculous." Kitty Indiana finally exclaimed. "What did you all _think_ the average German was doing five years ago? Do you think every household in Nazi territory was hoarding a secret stash of Jews in their attics while plotting to kill Hitler?"

Harry swallowed, "Sh-she's not the only murderer in the room."

Kitty stared at Harry.

"The cop," Harry explained. "Who I send off the bridge. He was just doing his job. He probably had kids, and a wife."

Kitty made a face, popping one eyebrow in grim agreement.

Nurse Jenkins came around Harry's bed and took a seat. "You look familiar," she said innocently. "What did you say your name was?"

Harry sighed, refusing to meet her eyes. "I spent most of my life in an internment camp, lady. I don't think I'm the Ching you're looking for."

"I visited an Internment Camp," Jenkins insisted. "I was a nurse working at Pearl Harbor when the bombing occurred. I think, I came to your camp to help train some of the nurses there. Anyway, you look like a fellow I saw around from time to time. Harry Kimitsu?"

Harry slowly turned to face the nurse. He sized her up inquisitively. "Maybe we have met."

"Amelia Jenkins." Since Ensign Jenkins' name was one that wouldn't stand out in the American forties, she'd decided to keep it. "I remember, Harry, you were always going on about how you thought you'd never get out of that camp, you'd never get into a university."

"I thought I'd be behind a fence forever," Harry mumbled. "Well I was right, wasn't I? No one hired me after I got out. No one except…" he trailed off.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to do better for you Harry," Kitty said flatly. "If means anything to you, I had every intention of sharing the profit from that Bird with my workers."

"But Harry," Jenkins insisted, "You saved everyone, remember? One of the doctors, it turned out, actually _was_ a Japanese spy, and he took you and me hostage. He wanted to blackmail the entire camp into helping him in his mission for the Axis Powers. You remember that?"

The Doctor remembered. Or rather, he remembered part of the real story, which Jenkins was twisting. An alien warhead had taken over his program, and then held Harry and B'Elanna hostage in Sickbay, demanding Voyager assist it in its mission to murder millions. Harry had saved the day by talking the warhead out of its mission at the last minute. Ensign Jenkins had then thanked Harry, on behalf of the entire nightshift crew.

"I think," Harry stared off into the distance. "I think I do remember," he squinted. "God it was so long ago…"

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Kitty answered it, and seemed taken aback by the two visitors. It was Naomi and Icheb, dressed in full costume. Naomi wore a black sweater, the round collar of her white undershirt folded down over the neck, her red-gold hair cut into a shoulder-length bob. The Doctor recognized where she'd gotten the look; it was an almost perfect recreation of the outfit worn by Anne Frank, in the database's cover picture for her diary. Icheb meanwhile looked like an overgrown newsie, with his striped scarf and floppy gray cap. The Doctor realized that no one had remembered to delete Naomi's horns or Icheb's nose crest and Borg implant from their holographic personas. Oh, well.

"Excuse me," Naomi said timidly. "But is your name Kitty Indiana?"

"That's me," Kitty replied.

Naomi and Icheb both looked at the Doctor. Their characters' back-stories were woven in with his, and they were expecting him to do the introduction.

"Miss Indiana," the Doctor stood up, and placed his brown fedora back on his head. "So much has been happening since we met, I haven't had the time to really tell you how I know you, and what I owe you."

"Owe me?"

"Miss Indiana," Dr. Lewis glanced at Annie. "Do you remember exactly what you were doing in Europe, when you first met Anita Heinritz?"

Kitty followed his gaze to Annie. "We don't like to discuss it."

Or, more likely, Seska just hadn't bothered to give Kitty and Annie a complete back-story. Now was the tricky part; the Doctor had to urge Kitty and Annie along, with the power of suggestion, and hope that in their dream-like state they would go along with it.

"Allow me to jog your memory." The Doctor said. "You went to France to conduct some business overseas, and just by your luck, the country was invaded by the Nazis and you were stuck there. You managed to get out with the help of a sympathetic Nazi woman, who you now call Annie."

Kitty's face changed. Annie turned to look at the Doctor, her face unreadable. All others in the room were listening intently, none more so than Charles.

Dr. Lewis nervously pushed on his round glasses. "The two of you traveled all across Europe, searching for a way out of Nazi territory. You wound up in Poland. And somewhere in the country you came across a train. A train that you knew was packed with Jews, Gypsies, cripples, homosexuals, and political enemies of the Nazis. You sabotaged the tracks to bring the train to a stop. Then you killed the conductor and most of the guards, hijacked the train and redirected it to Ally Territory. Do you recall any individuals you rescued that day?" the Doctor coaxed, "Any children you pulled from the dark?"

Annie replied, barely above a whisper. "A teenage boy. Twins. A girl…"

"Two girls." Naomi stepped in front of Seven. "Remember me, Annie?"

Annie's blue eyes searched the girl.

"Well maybe you don't recognize me with all this meet on my bones." Naomi offered. "There were five of us kids in there, when you opened the door. Me, the twins, the other girl, and the boy."

Icheb added, "You saved us all."

"No," Annie said slowly. "I didn't. There was another boy."

The Doctor remembered when Voyager rescued the Borg children. There had been one boy, Icheb's age, who they'd failed to save.

Playing along, Icheb said, "My cousin. He had typhus."

Annika's eyes moved between the two teens. Finally landing on Naomi, she said, "I remember you, and your mother. We played some board game, or another."

Naomi nodded. "My name's Natalia Wilinski. You worked with my mom, Stefania Wilinski, to direct the train to Ally territory. And I taught you how to play Chinese checkers."

"I remember," Annie said. "Stefania was an intelligent woman, I was always impressed by how well she handled the pressure of working on that train with us, while her daughter was aboard, after all you two had been through." Her eyes fell on Naomi's horns. "I was already familiar with your culture, though indirectly." She squinted, trying to remember what culture that was. What country produced people with horns?

"You mean Jews?" prompted "Natalia." "Yeah. You didn't have the best opinions of us for a while, but I think Mama and I changed your mind."

"You see," Dr. Lewis came up next to Natalia. "Stefania Wilinski is my cousin, and Natalia here is my niece. When I heard what was being done to our people in Europe I immediately worked to get my relatives out. But I failed, on all accounts, except for Stefiania and Natalia. For which I am forever in debt to you and Miss Indiana."

Kitty gave Dr. Lewis a look. "Cousins? Is your whole family…?"

"Criminals? No. Ironically, the ones being sent to concentration camps were all law-abiding citizens. I've spent a several years on the guilt, I'd rather not go back to focusing on it just right now."

Kitty nodded. "Sorry, Doctor."

Annie's eyes fell on Icheb. "Your people I knew less about. You were more…foreign. To me, I mean."

"Romani." Icheb said. "Or 'Gypsy,' as you people usually call us. My name is Ivan. You dropped the other Romani kids off with a caravan you found in England, but I came to America with the Wilinskis."

"It was a painful goodbye." Annie's eyes were watering at the memory of parting with the Gypsy children she'd grown so close to.

She noticed Charles was looking at her with a newfound admiration. Annie quickly looked away, feeling her face heating up.

"I know you!" Ned Felix approached the children. "I took care of you two!"

Natalia grinned, looking on the verge of tears. "After Annie and Kitty dropped us off in England." She barreled into Felix with a hug. "And you remember Mama of course?"

"How could I forget."

The thinly-concealed rage Ned Felix had been showing since his wife's murder had vanished without a trace.

"Anyway," Natalia broke away from him. "We just heard that my uncle was here, and he was with you, and we wanted to say hi. Catch up."

Annie suddenly straightened. "What we need to 'catch up' with is that bitch Seraphine, and rescue Tom's…friend."

"Agreed." Charles pushed himself up. "I should be good to walk and drive now, as long as I can take some of those painkillers with me."

Dr. Lewis's eyes bulged. "You're being held together by a primitive network of fibers! You should remain horizontal until you're fully healed!"

Charles froze, with his hand on his blanket, staring at the Doctor like he was from Mars. Natalia closed her eyes and mouthed something to herself. Ivan refused to meet anyone's eye. All other faces were starting that the doctor. A few then glanced at Charles' midriff, which looked safely sealed under the white bandages.

"I've had stitches before, Doc," Charles finally said, still looking at him oddly. "Broken bones too. Calm down." He stopped to flex the parts of his body that had been injured back at Kitty's café. His ribs were bandaged, and one arm might need a sling. He almost flung the blanket off of him, then remembered he was naked. "Someone want to bring me my clothes?"

* * *

Harry was forced to remain in the hospital, with the Doctor and Nurse Jenkins. Ned Felix left to search for his friend Tim Excelsior. Charles Liberty, Kitty Indiana and Annie Hanson took a cab back to the café, to retrieve the Bird.

"This should be quick in and out," Kitty promised, pulling out her keys.

"Shouldn't it always," Annie sighed.

The café was closed for the day. The three wasted no time entering the vacant café. Kitty knelt beside the back of the piano, and popped one of the wooden panels inward. Annie watched with a grudging patience; she'd done that, she'd checked there. Kitty reached into the piano, feeling its floor, until her hand hit some kind of button or switch that Annie couldn't see. A square of the piano's floor popped up, and underneath was the coffee can that contained the Bird. Kitty carefully took it out, and one could see its weight from the way she held it.

"Make sure," Annie advised.

Kitty snickered. "If you insist." She popped the lid off the can.

As she did, there came a knock at the café's back door. Charles slowly approached the door, raising his gun with his good hand. He'd forgone the sling the doctor had recommended, but let his injured arm hang at his side. The two women rose to their feet, Kitty still holding the can. Annie instinctively fished her coat pocket for her gun, then remembered she was wearing Officer Andrew's coat.

"It's probably just a customer." Kitty muttered.

"But at the back door?" Annie whispered.

Charles stopped right at the door and said loudly, "Who is it?"

"A friend," an unfamiliar male voice replied. "Let me in and I'll explain everything."

Charles exchanged a glance with Annie and Kitty. Kitty quickly replaced the lid on her coffee can, gave Charles an approving nod, and moved to replace the can in the piano. Charles opened the door an inch, his gun ready. He opened his mouth to say something, but was suddenly grabbed by the arm and yanked out of the café.

"Charles!" Annie raced to the door and slammed into it, just seconds after it shut.

* * *

Outside, Charles was greeted by a small group of men, who looked like they belonged to Mickey Kazon's gang. They all had those hideous faces and crazy gray hair. Two of them took hold of his arms, while a third blocked the café door with his body. On the other end, Charles could hear Annie or Kitty banging against the door, trying to force it opened. While the two thugs held his arms back, a third wrenched his gun from his hand.

They quickly dragged him across the street, and rushed him through a maze of alleys. It might not have been so bad, if he wasn't currently recovering from two cracked ribs, a fractured arm, and half a dozen cuts throughout his organs. They finally stopped in a tight alley that at best would take several minutes for Kitty and Annie to find him in. And they'd left a few gangsters at the café, to hold them off. The two thugs holding Charles slammed him against the brick wall. A third one punched him across the face, knocking the back of his head against the bricks, then grabbed his chin.

"You know me, Liberty," the gangster snarled. "We met in France. Your girlfriend Seraphine invited you over for some tea and biscuits."

"Invited" here meant "lured into a trap," and "tea and biscuits" meant "rough interrogation." After his "operation," Charles told himself that the next time someone tried to torture him, he wouldn't give them anything but a ball of saliva in the eye. But that was before Seraphine had kidnapped Billie.

"I'll tell you," Charles said. "Just tell me where Billie is and I'll give you the Bird." With the FBI now aware that Seraphine was a Nazi, he wouldn't need the Bird to save his tribe from her greed. With complete sincerity, he told his captor, "Honestly, I don't care about that piece of tin anymore."

Another punch in the face.

"I don't want the Bird." The gangster said. "I'm just here to deliver a message. If you continue to drag your little friends into this escapade, they're the ones who are going to pay for it." His eyes wandered up to Charles' tattoo. "What _is_ that scribble on your face supposed to be?"

Clenching his jaw, Charles delivered a head-butt into the gangster's lumpy, orange mug. It felt like slamming his forehead into a turtle shell, but seeing the stunned look on the bastard's face made it well worth it.

* * *

In Engineering, Gowlat hit her com badge. "Golwat to Sickbay! Maje Culla's got Chakotay, and he's pulling the guilt trip on him. Seska wants him to go after her by himself, like he did when she stole that transporter module. Whoever Chakotay's counselor is, you should send them in now."

"Noted," Annalie Blackhorse replied. "Unfortunately Ayala's busy at the moment…Marina? You ready?"

* * *

Watching the gangster rub his dented forehead, Charles was tempted to gloat, but that wasn't his style. While some other guys like Marseilles might offer some wisecrack at this point, Charles just glanced up smugly at the gangster under his eyebrows.

Still rubbing his head, the gangster reached out with his other hand and yanked Charles' suit jacket opened. The white buttoned shirt underneath was still wrinkled and dirty from the night he'd spent in Kitty's café, what felt like ages ago. How many beatings was he going to take this week?

"On a final note," the gangster pulled back a low fist, threatening to punch Charles' gut back opened.

"No!" Charles struggled futilely. "No, please!"

The blow knocked his winds out. He remained doubled over, terrified to move, unsure if his bandages or stitches had come loose. Either way, it hurt like a thousand hells.

He finally wheezed, "I'll go, I'll meet Seraphine alone," he blinked widely. "If that's what she wants."

The gangster instructed, "You'll meet her at the Nistrim Bridge, tonight, at—"

A Volkswagen suddenly tore into the alley, sending the gangster flying into a pile of trashcans like a rag doll. The two holding Charles dropped him and fled. Charles collapsed to his knees. He saw the car back up. The gangster who'd beaten him crawled to his feet and limped out of the alley. Charles desperately wanted to shoot him, or hoped his mystery rescuer would, but the bastard got away.

The car swiveled clumsily, and finally parked at an awkward angle, right there in the alley. Whoever was driving didn't have a lot of experience. The door opened and a petite woman stepped out, in a short red trench coat, with a tiny matching hat topping her dark rolls of hair. She rushed to Charles and put her arms around him, as if she were some close friend or relative. Two men followed her out of the car. One was a young brown-haired man with ridges on his nose, who somehow managed not to get a speck of the dirty alley's dust on his elegant pinstriped suit. And the other was a bald blue fellow, in a waiter's tuxedo.

"Easy Charles," the woman said softly. "Breathe."

She reached to feel his abdomen with one hand, but he blocked her.

"It's fine," he gasped. "I'm fine." He glanced around the three of them. "Do I know you people?"

"We were in your infantry, in the War," the blue man said. "I was the cook, remember? Eddie Chell?"

"Chell," Charles muttered, then nodded. "Chell, yes. I remember. How could I forget?" His eyes moved to the man with the odd nose. "I can't remember your name. It starts with a T,"

"Taylor," the man said. "I was the guy who never got any dirt on his uniform in the trenches. The guy with the personal forcefield, remember?"

Charles smiled at the memory. That silly nickname, "personal forcefield," was like something from a Flash Gordon serial.

"You remember me, Marina?" the woman said. "Marina Jones? I was one of your drivers in the War."

Charles eyes moved up and down her face. "Marina! We used to share stories, about home. I played cards with you."

"You told me a dozen times, I'd make a great counselor," she said.

Charles closed his eyes, and rubbed his head. "How'd you find me?"

Taylor scratched his ridged nose, as if struggling to remember. "Chell was working for Indiana and saw you at the café. He did some research and found out you were in trouble. So he got a few of the old gang back together to help out our old captain."

Charles groaned. "I've got all the help I can get right now, thanks."

"Really?" Marina said. "I don't see your friends."

He remembered that Annie and Kitty were back at the café, with those other gangsters.

He quickly pushed himself up. "I have to go."

"Not by yourself you're not!" Marina followed him up.

"Stay out of this!" Charles said sternly.

"We're soldiers!" Taylor retorted. "We survived the Nazis, we can handle these goons!"

"Let me guess," Marina said. "They told you if you dragged any of your friends into this they'd kill them, right? They're probably saying that to all your friends too. It's just a ploy to drive you all apart. Let us help you!"

Charles swallowed. He'd been used once as a pawn to lure Annie. He didn't like the prospect of it happening again. But if someone was possibly putting her—or Billie, or anyone—in the same position he'd just been in moments ago, he had to stay in contact with them. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Alright, but you all do as I say."

"Just like old times," Marina replied.

* * *

The café's back door swung opened and shut, bullet holes framing its handle. Against the brick wall, Annie finally out-wrestled her gangster and snapped his neck with her iron fingers. His dead body sank to the ground. Annie ran back inside and grabbed a short potted plant, then rushed back outside, where the other gangster was strangling Kitty. Roaring through her teeth, Annie brought the pot over the gangster's head, knocking him out, and hopefully giving him a concussion.

Annie returned to Kitty, who was gasping for breath. "Kitty,"

"I'm fine." Kitty nodded, still gasping. "Let me secure the Bird and we'll find Charles."

"Catch up to me." Annie said, and tore across the street before Kitty could stop her.

Kitty decided to let her go.

She'd stashed the Bird back in the piano, but hadn't sealed it. After double-checking that it was still in there, and making sure it was locked back into the secret compartment, Kitty headed back to the opened door.

"Kitty?"

She stopped in her tracks at the sound of her fiancé's voice.

"Mayhew?"

His head poked into the doorway. "Kitty! Thank god I found you!"

"What do you mean?" Kitty eyed him nervously.

"Kitty," Mayhew stepped into the café, and grabbed her shoulders. "I heard about someone who's back in town. You won't like it. He's a gangster you know from New York, and he's in San Francisco—"

"Mayhew, I appreciate the heads up. But right now I've got bigger fish to fry."

"Like Nazi bombs?"

She looked up at him sharply. "How the hell do you know about that?"

"That's part of his plan," her fiancé said frantically. "He's got his followers out here, posing as FBI or cops, telling gangsters they need their help to find some Nazi bombs, or some such baloney."

"There are Nazis here," Kitty said. "I have it on good authority."

"No doubt. But they're just a bunch of wackos, they can't engineer anything like weapons of mass destruction. But gangsters can definitely pose as cops. Al Capone's gang did it on the Valentine's Day Massacre, remember?"

Kitty did remember. She'd known a few of the Irish mobsters who'd been shot down by Capone's goons that day. Their boss, Bugs Moran, was a family friend.

Urgently, Kitty whispered, "How did you learn all this, Mayhew?"

"He told me." Mayhew swallowed. "Kitty I'm sorry, I'm a coward. I'm not fit to marry you."

"Mayhew,"

"He said he'd kill me. Me, and my whole family, if I didn't tell him everything I knew about you, and your silver bird statue."

"Who?"

"Rudolph Ransom."

Kitty froze. The name brought up such strong emotions, that for the moment, there wasn't even room in her mind to bring up a face or a memory. Only fury. "Ransom?"

"The guy who betrayed you in France. Who betrayed all of America to help the Nazis, just for a bit of extra cash. The guy who's now running New York, breaking every code the Mafia or any organization like it ever set down. Killing civilians, women, children…"

"I know who Ransom is!" she snapped.

Though, admittedly, Mayhew's needless explanation had broken her out of her trance of rage, and given her the reminders she'd needed on who she was up against. Kitty normally regarded her adversaries with a kind of respect, but not Ransom. He was a traitor, a monster with no scruples, and she'd do anything to erase him off the face of the Earth.

"I just barely escaped him Kitty." Mayhew's voice was cracking. "He'll probably catch up to me soon. No matter what you do, don't let him get your statue, and don't trust anyone!"

Kitty smiled. "I'm afraid I can't quite obey that last order Mayhew." She reached up to stroke his cheek. "I'll never stop trusting you."

* * *

Annie found Charles within minutes, and he introduced her to his war buddies on the way back to the café. When the five of them reached the Queen's Cabin, it was locked. The two dead gangsters were still lying in front of the door. Kitty probably had the doors locked for fear of more enemies following. They tried knocking. No answer.

"Hang on," Annie pulled a hairpiece from her tousled gold hair.

"I didn't realize you could pick locks with hairpins outside of motion pictures," Charles commented.

Annie popped the door opened, and they stepped inside. The café was still empty, and largely untouched. They all called Kitty's name several times, and got nothing.

"Alright," Charles said. "We'll split up."

"Chak—Charles," Taylor argued, "I don't think that's a good—"

"What did I say before Taylor."

The young man swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Charles motioned for Annie to follow him. Taylor went to check the closet where Charles had been tied up days before. Marina and Chell went to look behind the stage. Charles and Annie made their way up the staircase to Kitty's sitting room. The door was unlocked, and the lights were off.

"I don't think she's been in here," Annie mused.

Charles replied with a small nod. "She probably—" he suddenly doubled over in pain, grabbing his stomach.

"Charles!"

He grabbed the edge of the sofa with his free hand, steadying himself, and shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Let me see." She steered him into a sitting position on the couch, and gently tried to move his hand away.

"I'm fine!"

With her superior strength, Annie forced his hand away. He looked away with his jaw clenched, while she pressed his abdomen in different places like a nurse.

"It was just a spasm," he assured her. "They come and go. It doesn't hurt now."

"But you said those pigs punched you right there. They might've undone some of your—"

He suddenly jolted, biting back a laugh.

Annie slowly stared up at him. "…are you... _ticklish_?"

"No!" he quickly moved his arm back to block himself. "It just—"

She reached under his arm and drummed her metallic fingers on his belly. He collapsed into a fit of silent giggles. The arrival of those dimples sent thrills through Annie. She sent him onto his back, treating his midsection like her piano. For someone with such toned muscles on his arms and chest, his stomach was so _squishy_. It was infinitely more endearing than the chiseled abs the Fuhrer wanted the men of his Master Race to sport. Whoever decided that women should be attracted to "six-packs" could go to hell, Annie decided.

"S-sto-stop—d-damn you!"

"Like hell I will."

She remembered how her mother used to tickle her as a child, under the light of the stars speeding past her bedroom window aboard their starship, while crying, " _Firing photon torpedos!_ "

Wait, _what?_

Annie frowned in puzzlement at the memory. When had she ever had parents? She'd been an orphan since before she could remember, the Nazi Youth being her only family… Yet for a moment, just now, there'd been a flash, a very strange memory—

"Annie, ease up. You'll break his stitches."

Realizing she was still going at Charles' midsection, Annie yanked her hands away and whipped around, to see Kitty standing in the doorway. Charles sat up, smoothing his shirt.

Immediately donning her professional mask, Annie asked, "Where've you been?"

"Talking with an old friend." Kitty stepped into the room. "Turns out there might be more to this 'Nazi bomb' story than we thought." She quickly closed the door behind her. "I don't know who those three people are down there in my café, but I don't want them to hear this conversation."

"Those are my war buddies," Charles said. "We can trust them."

"Really. When was the last time you spoke with any of them?"

He looked down, realizing she had a point.

"I'll make this quick," Kitty said. "To summarize, someone's bamboozling us, and I'm not sure who."


	18. Addicted to Bad Ideas

Golwat was trying to keep track of so many different subplots at once, she feared her blue head might explode. The Bolian engineer breathed deeply, staring down at the console. Every senior officer was interacting, in some way or another, with one of the volunteer rescuers; and at the same time, each of them had one or more of Seska's holograms attempting to manipulate them. It was pretty much the same situation in every grid, but nevertheless, Golwat's sapphire eyes hoped from scene to scene, waiting for any change, good or bad.

In one grid, Golwat watched Captain Janeway in the Queen's Cabin café, now opened, and filled with patrons. "Kitty Indiana" was leaning over the counter, speaking to three workers with new faces: Crewman Tal Celes, Crewman William Telfer, and Crewman Mortimer Harren. A little over a year ago, the Captain had taken the three of them on an away mission, in an attempt to boost their confidence and dissect their work performance problems. The mission had earned her a special respect from each of them.

Mortimer was playing bartender, fittingly; his world-weary personality made him a believable barkeep. Golwat wasn't sure about the gold suit though; it had looked good on Tuvok, but it clashed comically with Mortimer's scowl. Tal Celes was standing behind the captain, in a cute black-and-white waitress's dress. The Bajoran woman might've overdone her hair and makeup, giving her an almost "I Love Lucy" look, but it fit with her wide eyes. Billy Telfer hung beside her, in a waiter's tux.

"I'm telling you Kitty," Tal insisted. "We'll be fine! Billy's uncle is filthy-stinkin' rich, and he's promised to set us up for life!"

" _You'll_ be set up, Tilly," Kitty Indiana replied. "But what about my other workers? I'm not going to abandon all these people."

"The Depression's over," Mortimer said, shaking up a bottle of alcohol. "We're all grown-ups Miss Indiana, we can take care of ourselves. If that Dr. Whoever says you have a bomb, you'd better listen to him."

"You know Miss Indiana, we haven't just stuck it out this long for the money," Tal insisted. "We've always admired you for doing what's right. There's not a lot of other businessmen I think I can say that about."

"They don't know what they're talking about, Kitty." The captain's old fiancé—"Mayhew"—came up next to Kitty, and leaned on the counter beside her. "What do they know? They've been doing nothing but serving wine and scrubbing johns this whole time. I _talked_ to Ransom, I know what he's planning!"

Watching the scene wearily, Golwat muttered to herself, "Three against one…and the one just _had_ to be the captain's fiancé. Odds _not_ in our favor." Uttering a Bolian curse word, she turned her indigo eyes to the next grid.

Here, she saw Harry Kim—Harry Kimitsu—being led through the halls of the hospital by a new brunette woman. Harry had recovered to the point of being able to walk again, and was fully dressed, but winced as she pulled him around the corner. His suit was hiding the bandages of his gunshot wound.

"Okay," Golwat sighed, watching the strange new woman. "Now who in the twelve hells are you."

The question had been rhetorical, but Kao Li Xiong heard it from her station nearby.

"Hang on," Ensign Xiong came up beside the Bolian. "I thought you were the ship's ultimate multitasker," Xiong joked.

Golwat, who was known for working in virtually every department onboard and having changed uniforms more than once, joked back, "I just couldn't decide what color looked best against my shade of blue. It's this girl here," Golwat gestured with her blue pinky in a Bolian "point," to the brunette woman who was now bringing Harry into a broom closet and speaking urgently to him.

"I've seen her before," Xiong nodded. "But I can't remember…crap, someone give me a rundown of Harry's girlfriends."

Golwat made a face. "Ensign Kim's changed girls more than I've changed jobs. Let's see, there's the hologram, Seven of Nine, the wrong twin, arguably Lt. Paris—"

"Never mind," Xiong shook her head. "I wouldn't know what most of them looked like anyway, it's not like Harry ever showed me pictures."

"Well which one might inspire Harry to do something stupid?" Golwat asked.

"Besides all of them?" Xiong suddenly snapped her fingers. "Tal! Not Celes. I mean that alien woman, who gave him a disease."

Golwat's dark blue eyes shifted. "Don't remember that one."

"Harry almost died! …Yeah, I can see why that incident doesn't stand out. Okay, well if I remember right, her species looked identical to humans, but their biology was a universe away. One or both of them got some kind of weird medical condition, I don't remember the details… but people said Harry was acting really out of character when he was with her, going against the captain and….you know…doing things that would be pretty standard for the rest of the senior staff, but very un-Harry Kim."

Golwat tilted her head, in her species' equivalent of a humans' nod.

Xiong finished, "So now she's Harry Kim's shoulder-devil."

The two women listened to Tal—or whatever the character's name was—manipulate Harry. They were locked in a coat closet, speaking in hushed voices. Golwat and Xiong were watching from a bird's-eye-view. Amelia Jenkins, still in her nurse disguise, was searching the halls for Harry, apparently having just lost him.

"They're after you Harry!" Tal hissed. "They know you killed that cop! You're gonna spend the rest of your life behind bars unless you get the hell out of here, right now!"

"I'm in the middle of a crisis of national security!" Harry countered. "I can't just take off with my ex-girlfriend, they need me!"

"For what?" she exclaimed. "What have you done this entire time, except get yourself shot and kill a cop?"

Jenkins finally heard the voices and rushed to the closet. Knocking frantically, she urged, "Harry? Harry, um, people need to use this closet you know…"

"Amelia can't do this by herself." Golwat hit her com badge. "Golwat to Sickbay. Jenkins could use some help with Ensign Kim."

Mar replied, "We'll send the Delaneys in. Thanks."

Golwat turned to Xiong, with the upward eye-roll that some Bolians used in place of a shrug. "Three pretty faces against one, it's got to count for something. At least as far as Ensign Kim's concerned."

"Oh," Xiong pointed to another panel. "Ayala and Andrews found Tuvok!"

Indeed, the two security officers—and Tom Paris—were standing in front of their parked police car, talking with "Tim Excelsior," behind an old building. Actually, it was Annie Hanson's apartment complex, where that creepy movie poster hid the holodeck panel.

"They're his best security officers," Xiong said. "If anyone can talk sense into Tuvok…" she saw Golwat's face, and finished reluctantly, "…then Hell will freeze over."

"Harlem," Andrews urged, his hand on "Tim Excelsior's" shoulder. "I worked with you in Harlem. We were buddies. Remember? And Mr. Gold too."

Tim through a dubious look at "Officer Gold" (Ayala). "You were a cop in Harlem?"

Tommy Chicago, who was leaning against the car with his hands in his pockets, looked equally perplexed.

Committed to his rouse, Ayala said, "I was the 'high yellow' guy."

Andrews muttered, " _Very_ high yellow."

Golwat gave Xiong an odd look. "What does that mean, 'high yellow?'"

"No clue," Xiong replied, equally baffled. "I thought 'yellow' meant people like me. Must some kind of Twentieth Century jargon."

"Listen Tim," Andrews said carefully. "We want to help you. We can explain everything, but you have to promise us, no mind melds. Think you can do that?"

It wasn't working.

Golwat tapped her combadge. "Golwat to Sickbay. Is Vorik ready yet? Tuvok needs a lot more convincing."

Javin replied, " _Vorik's having trouble with the holo-projector. We're confident he'll get it but it could take a few minutes, or more_."

"Is there anyone else onboard besides Vorik, Ayala and Andrews who's close with Tuvok, outside the senior staff?"

On the other end, Vorik said something.

Annalie Blackhorse came on. " _Vorik just got an idea. Can you send a regular hologram into the program, the same way we're sending projections of the volunteers?_ "

"We can," Xiong said, "But we have to conserve power. And it takes time to program a hologram to act the way we need it to."

Finally, they heard Vorik's voice. " _Lt. Paris recently created a hologram of Tuvok's wife T'Pel for him. How quickly can you adjust her to blend into this program and convince Tuvok to join our side?_ "

"I can do that in about five minutes," Xiong said. "Just tell me where the program is."

" _It is in Tuvok's classified files. But of course, the Doctor has used his medical command codes to override private locks on all files_ ," Xiong and Golwat sighed as the Vulcan rambled to himself. " _In any case, we should have the name of the program momentarily_."

* * *

"I cannot trust my closest comrades. I cannot trust my own senses. Why should I trust two 'old friends' who I barely remember?" Tim demanded robotically.

"Can you trust me?" a low female voice demanded.

A woman was suddenly standing in an old doorway, just a few feet away from Tim. A short black woman, with sharp eyebrows and heavy-lidded eyes, wearing a professional suit dress. Her glossy black hair was yanked up into and elegant set of rolls, showing off her long pointed ears.

"Janelle," Tim whispered.

"Tim." His wife left the stoop. "So this is where you've been hiding."

"I wanted to return to you," he said hesitantly.

"What's stopping you? Drop this case, and come back to New York."

Tim huffed. "I can't. I must catch Gardener!"

"What on Earth for? You're a P.I., not a cop! These two can catch him!" she jerked her head to Andrews and Ayala, who nodded.

"We can catch him!" Andrews repeated.

"They do not have my experience. Gardener is my responsibility. I will not delegate this task to unprepared officers."

"You want me Tuvok?" Lon Suder—or "Gardener"—suddenly called, from a high window across the street. "I'm right here!"

Ayala and Andrews immediately drew their guns and fired, but their bullets wound up hitting the window's slammed shutters. Tim tore away from his wife and dashed across the street, slamming into the locked door of the building Gardener had shouted from. Janelle watched her husband with a deadpan irritation, as if he had just walked out of an important conversation to go watch a baseball game.

"Whatever," Tommy Chicago threw the cop-car's door opened and jumped into the driver's seat. "I'm gonna find Billie!"

"Pari—Chicago, wait!" Andrews dove into the car through the other door, just before Tom took off.

* * *

Back in Engineering, Golwat slammed her blue palm into the console with frustration.

Xiong, meanwhile, just watched the screen with a defeated stare. Her mind was starting to wander back to Angelo. Xiong had hoped that focusing on her work would keep the recent memories of her comrade's death at bay, but that was proving harder than it seemed.

"Moving on," Golwat said flatly. "What's Neelix up to?"

"Here," Xiong found him on the panel. "In that automobile, with that other Talaxian. I think Naomi's in there too."

Golwat squinted. "Oh, skies above, Naomi's in a car with the drug dealer."

Indeed, "Ned Felix" was driving through the city, with his old pal Willy riding shotgun. Squashed into the back seat were Naomi, Icheb, and Samantha Wildman. Sam's forest-green suit-dress was reminiscent of the science uniform she normally wore. Golwat recognized the blaze-orange flower pinned to Sam's lapel as a Ktarian plant.

"I'm not sure I even want to watch anymore," Xiong said.

"You don't have to," Golwat reminded her. "I'm the monitor right now. You're supposed to be working on that diagnostic."

Xiong grimaced, her eyes stuck on the screen. It was like watching a train wreck; she couldn't look away. "Can't hurt to have two pairs of eyes."

* * *

"I'm telling you Ned," Willy insisted. "You're letting your wife's murderers get away!"

Sam—or "Stefania"—fired from the back seat, "And just how do you know who murdered his wife? Were you there? Ned, I know he's your friend, but please, are you going do everything a drug addict tells you to?"

Ned replied sternly, his eyes fixed on the road. "It so happens that this 'drug addict' and I have a very long history. Neither of us is perfect and that's why we're buddies. Now we're gonna find my friend Tim, and then we're gonna find that rat Tommy Chicago again and get to the bottom of this!"

"Tom's not a rat!" Naomi exclaimed. "He's your friend!"

Her mother and Icheb gave her warning looks.

Catching herself, Naomi explained, "I mean, he didn't kill anyone, he wouldn't!"

"He was snogging her behind my back," Ned fumed. "And behind the back of that other woman."

"So he's a pig," Sam said casually. "That doesn't make him a murderer."

"And even if the pregnant woman did kill Kaaren," Icheb pointed out, "She is now being held prisoner by a deranged Nazi sympathizer, and would already be receiving the punishment she deserves."

Before Ned could begin to see reason, Willy quickly countered, "You still need answers! Turn this car around Ned, go back to the hospital and get that little Chinese buddy of Chicago's to tell you the real story!"

"That can wait!" Sam leaned forward, between the two front seats. "Ned, Tim needs you. He's sick in the head, and there are Nazis loose in the city! Think Ned! How much value would Nazis place on the life of a mentally ill black man?"

Willy gave Samantha's chest a hard shove, knocking her back into her seat with a muffled yelp. Turning back to Ned he yelled, "You met these people twice Ned! Are you gonna believe a Gypsy and a couple of kikes over one of your own kind?"

" _Don't call them that!_ " Ned yelled suddenly, ripping his face from the road to glare furiously at Willy.

Naomi threw her hands up and yelled, " _What_ is a kike?"

"Look," Willy grabbed the steering wheel. "I'm sorry Ned, I lost my temper. But just…turn around."

"I can do it myself Willy," Ned snapped, wrestling over the steering wheel with his friend.

"No!" Naomi climbed over her mother and Icheb, and grabbed the steering wheel. "You have to find Tuvok! I mean Tim!"

" _NAOMI!_ " her mother shouted.

While Naomi, Willy and Ned fought over the steering wheel, Sam grabbed her daughter around the waist and attempted to pull her back into her seat. The result was that after several sharp turns and swerves, the car shot into a dark tunnel-bridge, entering at an angle and scraping against the wall. Sam grinded her teeth at the deafening screech. She finally plucked her daughter from the wheel, at the same time that Ned managed to shove Willy off of it.

Having reached the end of his rope, Ned announced, "That's it! You all have until I reach the end of this bridge to agree on where I should go next. Right now I'm…too mixed up to know what to think!"

Naomi's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh my god! Ned turn around, stop!"

"Only if everyone else agrees."

"No Ned, I mean this bridge! It's—"

Ned saw the end of the tunnel, and realized too late what she was trying to tell him.

They were on the unfinished bridge that Tommy Chicago and Harry Kimitsu had tricked their enemies into driving off of, at the beginning of the holonovel.

Ned slammed his foot on the break, but not in time to stop the car from doing a swan dive into the river.

* * *

Xiong gasped, while Golwat quickly checked everyone's life signs.

"They're okay," the Bolian said.

"Even the drug dealer?" Xiong asked, half hoping the character would die, giving Sam, Naomi and Icheb an advantage with Neelix.

Golwat shook her head. "He made it too. Sorry."

* * *

All of the car's passengers were now bobbing in the water, while the car sank.

"That was kind of fun," Naomi said.

"That does it!" Ned shouted. "I'm going to get some time to myself, I don't want any of you following me! Natalia, Ivan, are you two alright?"

Naomi and Icheb glanced at each other, and suddenly remembered that in this world, they were a Jewish girl and a Romani boy named Natalia and Ivan.

Ned guided the children and "Stefania" back to shore, while Willie hastily swam after them.

"At least let us help you find your friend," Sam insisted, as they trudged along the shore.

"I don't need anyone's help!" Ned snapped. "With the state Tim's probably in, I'll it'll be better off if I talk to him alone anyway. Why don't you three go see if Miss Indiana needs help. You'll be safer with her, than out here trying to give yourselves driving lessons."

"Stefania" gave her daughter a scolding look, and "Natalia" looked away bashfully.

* * *

In Sickbay, Noah Lessing and Marla Gilmore were lying down on biobeds, as Blackhorse and Javin applied the cordial monitors.

Off-handedly, Lessing asked, "You think we can talk the captain out of fighting Ransom?"

"It's worth a shot," Gilmore said.

They both closed their eyes, and a second later, they found themselves in a restroom in the coffee shop. They left the restroom and hurried past the confused barista, who was probably wondering where the hell all these strange people magically coming out of the washrooms were coming from. They otherwise didn't attract much attention in the sparsely populated diner. They got a look from two immigrant women, one German and one Irish, who then returned to their conversation about "the old country." Gilmore was pretty sure she'd seen both holograms before.

The cool November air hit them full-force as they hurried onto the street. Gilmore's long dirty-blond hair was pulled into elegant rolls, and she wore a wool coat the same color as her gold Starfleet uniform. Lessing was dressed similarly, his coat and hat a science-officer green.

"Where's the captain?" Gilmore asked breathlessly, as they ran down the street.

"Which one?"

"The one we're here to rescue!"

"Janeway. Right. The one who tried to kill me."

"Noah for god's sake, that was over a year ago. We don't have time for in-fighting, that's what Seska wants!"

"Okay, okay." He sighed. "Uh…this way."

They ran down the street, holding their hats.

"This'll make some bedtime story for Amanda," Marla said off-handedly.

"You planning to tell her the old-fashioned way, or just have her assimilate you and relive the experience?"

"You're hilarious. For the record, Mandy's species _is_ semi-telepathic, so maybe when she's old enough I'll—"

"There!" Noah pointed, to where Janeway was talking to her fiancé.

They cut in front of the affronted "Mayhew."

"Excuse us," Marla panted.

"Excuse _me_ ," Mayhew sneered.

"Do I know you two?" Kitty Indiana asked.

"Don't remember us?" Marla urged. "We used to work for Ransom remember? We were citizens in the German town he was posted near. But we changed our minds about our government, and you helped us escape the Nazis.

"You're Germans?" Janeway's blue eye and pinstriped patch hoped between them. "Your accents…"

"Left them in Germany." Marla said quickly, flashing an unconvincing smile.

Janeway was now staring at Lessing.

Lessing stammered, "I've uh, been living in California the last few years, working on my suntan. But you must remember my winning smile." Lessing flashed the grin he was known for throughout the ship. "If not that, then the time you tried to kill me, maybe. One of your comrades had to stop you."

"I do remember that…yes I know you two."

"You can't trust them!" Mayhew urged. "They said themselves, they're Nazis!"

"No more than Annie Hanson!" Marla said. "Miss Indiana, don't you remember, you rescued the orphan from the train that I wound up adopting?"

"We know Ransom," Lessing said. "He's trying to provoke you into getting into trouble with the police. It was always his tactic. I hated you for a while, I confess it. I was blinded by my loyalty to a man I considered a father, I had Ransom on a pedestal. But now I realize any sane person in your boat would've wanted to fry me for what I'd done. Not that it was a right command decision of course, and I still think Chakotay or Tuvok should be in charge, the Detla Quadrant's driven you to the loony bin, but the point is you're not a bad person and you've eared my respect Captain."

Kitty Indiana just stared at Lessing.

Marla slowly closed her eyes. "Listen, Miss Indiana. What he meant to—"

Two gunshots exploded in Marla and Noah's ears...

…and then they were both waking up in Sickbay.

"What happened?" Marla exclaimed.

"You died," Javin said. "Ransom shot you."

On a panel on the biobed's consol, the program was playing. Ransom stood over Marla and Lessing's holographic bodies.

"Send us ba—" Marla began, then remembered, and cursed to herself. "We can't go back, can we?"

"One life only," Blackhorse said regretfully.

* * *

Xiong eventually had to run to the lavatory, and in the three minutes she'd been there she'd missed a lot. When she returned to Golwat's consol, most of the panels showed a radically different scene than when she'd left.

"Guess I missed a bit," Xiong said, wide-eyed. "When did the gunplay start?"

"Around the time Captain Ransom killed Lessing and Gilmore," Golwat answered. "In the program I mean. They're both okay. But of course, 'Kitty Indiana' doesn't know that."

In the brick tunnels, Kitty Indiana was engaged in a shoot-out with Rudolph Ransom. The Equinox captain looked just as he had in real life, save the wardrobe. For Q-knew what reason, Seska had put him in an awful mustard-yellow suit and a bowler hat. Civilians screamed and stampeded through the subways, dodging the shots, as Kitty and Ransom fired at each other. Charles Liberty and Annie Hanson then came around one corner, firing guns of their own. Annie had somehow found the time to change back into her own clothes, and fix her hair and makeup. Charles' opened suit jacket flew behind him as he expertly ran around the tunnel, firing and dodging gunshots.

Unfortunately, Ransom had backup too. Golwat and Xiong recognized several Equinox members whom Voyager had fought, though none of them were the survivors who'd ultimately joined the Voyager crew.

"What are they doing here alone?" Xiong demanded. "Where's Jor, Tabor, Celes, and…everyone?"

Golwat shook her head. "Like I said, you blink and you miss everything. The spoon-head's holograms lured them away from our people, and on top of that she's got time itself sped up in her holographic world. It's like a—Oh! Looks like the cavalry's finally hear."

Ayala, Andrews and "Tommy Chicago" came running down the subway steps, their guns drawn. Unfortunately, the steps were swamped with civilians running up the opposite direction, fleeing the fray. Ayala stopped a blonde woman, who just by their bad luck turned to be the Constance Goodheart hologram.

"Which way did they go Miss?" Ayala asked frantically. "Left or right?"

Constance went cross-eyed as she bellowed one of her famous screams in Ayala's face, but while doing so she pointed with a shaking hand to the left.

"Thank you ma'am," Ayala let her go and continued down the steps with Tom and Andrews, rubbing his temples.

Tommy Chicago, for whatever reason, didn't have a gun. But that apparently didn't stop him from involving himself in the fight. He charged at Max—Ransom's first officer, and B'Elanna Torres' ex boyfriend from the Academy—and knocked him halfway over the edge of the walkway. Max's gun clattered onto the train tracks below. Max punched Tom in the face, and rolled back up.

"Where've I seen you before?" Tom asked casually, preparing his fists.

"I'm Billie's ex boyfriend," Max sneered. "Actually, maybe _recurring_ boyfriend's a better term. Don't be too sure that bastard in her belly's yours."

Tom lunged at Max again, which was exactly what Max wanted. He grabbed Tom and tossed him down onto the train tracks, then leaped down to continue pummeling him.

Meanwhile, Charles and Annie were driven further away from the group, by more of Ransom's gunners. The couple backed away without looking behind them, continuing to fire. Annie, as always, was scanning the entire area between gunshots, taking in all the details she could. It didn't take long for her to see Tom and Max brawling down on the train tracks.

"Tom!" Annie yelled to Charles. "He's down on the—"

A hand closed over her mouth and yanked her back.

Xiong and Golwat recognized the man holding her as the Kazon Maje Culla.

Naturally, Charles Liberty wouldn't know the name. But he knew him as the gangster and Nazi sympathizer who'd tortured him and threatened his friends. Culla's two remaining thugs were with him.

"I warned you Liberty," the gangster snarled. "Not to drag them into this."

Charles took aim and pulled the trigger, only to realize that he was out of bullets. Probably had been for some time. Might explain why his last few shots hadn't hit any of Ransom's men. Seemingly without even having to think about it, Charles chucked his gun away and swung at the Kazon with his fist. His knuckles collided with Culla's gray mushroom-shaped clumps of hair. There was a sound like breaking paper mache, and then Annie, Charles and Culla were blinking as ash-like bits of Kazon-hair flew around their faces.

In Engineering, Xiong whispered, "I always wondered what would happen if you punched Kazon hair."

Golowat and Xiong held their breath, watching Annie struggle as the Kazon slammed her against the brick wall. Aparently, Seska had programmed her Kazon characters to be stronger than a former Borg drone. Which was all kinds of ironic, since the Borg considered real Kazon so pathetic that they weren't even worthy of assimilation.

Luckily, their First Officer's talent for punching things served him surprisingly well, for a few seconds at least. His next blow sent the Kazon stumbling back, giving Annie the moment to reach out with her inhuman reflexes and snag his gun. While Charles and the gangster brawled, she took aim at the latter's back, and pulled the trigger, only to hear the click of an empty barrel.

"Figures," the singer muttered.

But she still had a weapon. She swung the empty handgun into the back of Culla's head. Unfortunately, this backfired, as a cloud of shattered Kazon hair exploded in her face, momentarily blinding her.

Culla threw Charles to the ground, sending him sliding almost to the edge of the walkway, near the train tracks below. Before he had time to push himself up, the Kazon barred into him, and began strangling him against the floor.

Annie clawed hair out of her face (hers and the Kazon's) and tore after Charles and his attacker. Stopping in front of them, she watched for a second as Culla wrung Chalres' neck, pondering her next move. Then she clasped her fists together in an unconscious Starfleet move, bringing her elbow into the Kazon's head. More of his mushroom hair tumbled to the ground, this time in large clumps.

Charles noticed. He grabbed the largest chunk of gray fungus his hand could reach and stuffed it in his attacker's mouth. Then grabbed another and shoved it into his nose. He threw the Kazon's slackening hands off his throat, then delivered a punch that sent his attacker to the ground. Annie finished the work. She grabbed the last chunks of gray fungi (or whatever the hell that stuff growing out of Culla's head was) and shoved it into his face, holding tightly. Charles watched, looking unsure whether he was awed or horrified at what she was capable of.

As the Kazon's struggles began to weaken, Annie muttered, without fully realizing it, " _Unworthy of assimilation_."

Charles gave her an odd look. "What's that, some kind of Nazi phrase?"

Her gold hair whipped around as she looked at him over her shoulder. Blinking, she said quietly, "Might be."

Ayala caught up to the couple, panting. "I clipped one of the Kazon, but the others got away. They looked like they were retreating at least."

"'Their whole gang named after Mickey Kazon?" Charles asked off-handedly as he pushed himself up.

Realizing his blunder, Ayala just shrugged.

As soon as he could, Charles ran to help Annie up, pulling her right into his arms and holding her tightly. She swallowed, staring down the tunnel, as if she didn't know how to respond to being held. He stroked her hair, breathing heavily. Glancing down at the smothered gangster, he whispered to her, "Not bad."

Charles looked over sharply when "Officer Gold" came around to face him. From the look on his face, it seemed to Golwat and Xiong that Ayala's character had already been introduced to him.

"Charles," Ayala began. "Kitty needs our help,"

He was cut off by the deafening sound of an approaching subway. Tom and Max were still brawling on the tracks, and Max was winning. Max dealt Tom a final kick to the face, and climbed out of the tracks. Tom rolled over and attempted to push himself up, but was too badly injured.

" _TOM!_ " Charles shouted.

He almost dove right onto the tracks after Tom, but Annie seized his arm, stopping him with her inhuman strength.

The train's light broke through the tunnel.

Without a second thought, Ayala leaped down into the track. Everyone expected him to try pulling Tom off of the tracks before the train arrived. Instead, he seized Tom around the middle and yanked him into the center of the tracks, then pressed him flat to the ground with his own body. The train flew over them, screaming in everyone's ears. When it passed, Ayala and Tom were still lying flat on the tracks, shaking but unscathed. Stunned, Tom allowed Ayala to help him up out of the train ditch.

Shaking, Tom said, "I've heard of that, but I never actually believed you could do it."

In Engineering, Golwat and Xiong were equally shocked.

"Took the words right out of my mouth, Tom," Golwat said.

Xiong's eyes moved to another panel. "The captain's in trouble."

Back in the other tunnel, Rudolph Ransom and Kitty Indiana had long since run out of bullets, and were brawling with a switchblade and a shard of glass, respectively. Officer Andrews was lying unconscious on the stone staircase nearby, having been flung onto the steps by Ransom when he tried to help Kitty.

"I always knew you were gullible Indiana," Ransom taunted, before slashing at her throat. She dodged it, receiving a nick on the cheek. "But even I didn't think that Nazi-bomb story would work on you! I was just hoping to keep you distracted while you figured out the Doc's real game. I didn't expect you to actually fall for that horse manure!"

"I didn't. Why do you think I still have the Bird under lock and key?" Kitty swung at him with her shard of glass.

"I think a better question is, why did you tell my associate Dr. Lewis where you hid it?"

As he spoke, he delivered deep cut to her arm.

Kitty cried out and stumbled back, grabbing her bleeding arm.

"I'm going to let you live, Indiana." Ransom taunted. "Let you see the damage you've done, with your pathetic little principals."

He replaced his bowler hat. Max and the handful of other Equinox crewmen Seska had programmed into the story came up beside him. Kitty could do nothing but lean against the wall panting, staring furiously at Ransom, while she rapidly lost blood. Ransom dipped his had mockingly at her, and his entire group was up the stairs and gone before Charles, Annie, Gold, or Tom could catch up.

"Miss Indiana," Andrews groaned awake, and pushed himself up from the staircase.

He hurried over to his captain, and silently offered to look at her wounded arm. She began to nod cordially, then suddenly shoved him away and brandished her glass weapon threateningly.

" _You!_ "

Andrews stared at the shard in her hand. " _What_?"

"Kitty!" Annie's voice rang through the tunnel.

Annie, Charles, Tom and Officer Gold had finally found their way back to Kitty.

"I take it you none of you heard my conversation with Ransom." Kitty said coldly, her eyes locked on Andrews. "Ransom told me everything. How you two and Dr. Goldstein or whatever his name is, were in with him the whole time."

Ayala said sternly, "He's manipulating you. Why the hell would he tell you his real plan?"

Everyone was silent. Kitty slowly began to lower her blade, as her logical reasoning began to win out over Seska's brainwashing techniques.

"There's one way to know for sure," Kitty said quietly. "We're going back to the café, and see what the Doc's up to."

Ayala and Andrews looked at each other.

In Engineering, Xiong asked nervously, "What, um, _is_ the Doc up to?"

Golwat closed her indigo eyes and sighed. "He left the fight early on, deciding to take the opportunity to get the Bird. Deliver it to Henley and Dalby outside the holodeck."

Xiong blinked. "Right! Wow. I almost forgot about the statue being a virus, and all." She rubbed her forehead. "God, my head really hurts, trying to keep track of all this."

"Confusion was Seska's specialty," Golwat said.

* * *

After who knew how long of trying, the Doctor finally managed to get the piano's compartment opened, and pull out the coffee can. He dug through it, and sure enough, the Bird was inside. The hologram stood up and turned, only to find himself facing the wrong end of Kitty Indiana's pistol. The Doctor remembered that, in this game, he could be "killed," and sent out of the program for good, leaving the entire rescue team without a ringleader.

"M-Miss Indiana!" he stuttered. "You're back! Here, I came to get your statue for you, before any—"

"Before your boss Ransom returned," she said in a low threatening voice.

The Doctor recognized the gun Kitty was holding as one of the standard police pistols that Ayala and Andrews had been programmed with.

"Where are the others?" the Doctor demanded.

"Your two comrades are back in the car. My people are keeping an eye on them. And let me make this clear; I haven't kept Gold and Andrews alive out of mercy. I'm keeping them for security, much the way your friend Seraphine is holding Tommy's friend."

"Alright, you win." The Doctor handed her the can.

She snatched it from him, pried off the lid, and checked that the statue was inside.

"Thank you, Doctor." She raised her pistol. "And now, I'll take my leave of you."

The Doctor's eyes bulged, as Kitty's cocked the gun, preparing the bullet.

The door burst opened, and Naomi ran into the café, with her mother and Icheb. For some reason, they all looked as if they'd just climbed out of a lake, their hair and clothes dripping water onto the cafe's floor.

"Miss Indiana—!" the girl froze, as if she hadn't been expecting the scene before her.

Kitty didn't acknowledge the new visitors, but her finger was frozen around the trigger.

The Doctor doubted that this visit was a coincidence. Golwat and Xiong were doing their jobs keeping track of the program, and had probably alerted Icheb and the Wildmans as soon as they knew he was in trouble. The Doctor had never been so relieved to see a cheap Deus Ex Machina play out in a piece of literature.

"You wouldn't kill me in front of my nice?" the Doctor urged.

Kitty's face reset into a hard, stern stare, and her gun remained pointed at the Doctor. "Natalia. Why don't you tell your uncle, that if he wants to keep breathing, he and his two friends can leave San Francisco, and never show their faces in this city again."

The Doctor nodded. "That sounds reasonable."

"Shut up!" the café owner barked.

She wasn't going to do it now. The Doctor was sure of it. As far as Kitty Indiana knew, "Stephania Wilinski" was his cousin, "Natalia" was his niece, and "Ivan" was their close family friend, and the three of them were Holocaust survivors. She wouldn't kill him in front of that trio.

Kitty finally lowered her gun, and jerked her head at the building's exit. The Doctor hurried towards the door, nodding cordially at Kitty with a nervous smile, and silently urged Natalia and Ivan to join him. Before the group exited the café, Stefania stopped and turned to Indiana.

"I have to ask, Miss Indiana," Stefania said softly. "What are you going to do, now that you don't believe that statue's a bomb?"

"I'm going to hold my auction. Tonight, in fact." Kitty's eyes fell on the Doctor. "You're hereby banned from this city. But if your relatives want to purchase the Bird fair and square, feel free to come back here at seven o'clock. I won't shoot you, so long as you buy it properly."

The Doctor nodded. "That sounds fair."

"And if your boss Ransom shows up, which I'm positive he will," she double-checked her gun, "I plan to be ready for him."

* * *

"Okay." Xiong sighed. "I don't think we need to watch Kitty Indiana set up for the auction for the next few hours. Well, minutes, probably. We better see what Kim and Tuvok are up to. I'll take Kim if you don't mind; I have a feeling his subplot will be a lot easier on my brain."

"You're right," Golwat said, watching Tuvok's panel.

Tuvok—or Tim—was sitting on a bench-swing in a park, attempting a mind-meld with his wife. "Janelle" just sat there impatiently, as if she'd reluctantly been talked into this. The couple got several strange looks from passers-by.

"You've said it yourself Tim," his wife said. "You'll never understand women even if you can read our minds. Now come with me to the doctor, so we can fix yours!"

"I can't read your mind…because you are not my wife!" he shoved her away from him. "You are not real!"

"I give up!" Janelle exclaimed angrily.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," a low male voice cut in.

Vorik approached them, looking tantalizing in a silver pinstriped suit and matching Fedora. Xiong leaned in next to Golwat, to get a better look. Like so many women aboard Voyager, Xiong had something of a mild crush on the young Vulcan.

"I thought you wanted to watch Ensign Kim," Golwat said.

"We can trade," Xiong replied eagerly.

"Who're you?" Janelle demanded, folding her arms.

"My name is Vinnie. I'm a friend of Mr. Excelsior's. He took me on as an apprentice in Harlem for some time. He was an incomparable tutor. Mr. Excelsior, you recognize me, do you not?"

"I do," Tim replied. "But I also recognized my wife. I recognized Mr. Gardener. None of them were real."

"I am. See for yourself." Vinnie placed his hands on Tim's head, and began, "My mind to your mind…"

Golwat and Xiong both watched, compelled to see if Vorik could save Tuvok with this meld.

"But Vorik's not really there," Xiong said. "He's sleeping in Sickbay. That's a hologram."

"Vulcans don't always need physical contact to join minds," Golwat reminded her. "I suspect Vorik's got something else up his sleeve. Not a real mind-meld, but some other kind of mental link, done from afar."

"What if it just makes Vorik go crazy?" Xiong whispered.

Golwat replied, "Then he'll go into Pon Faar again and try to mate with Tuvok. So what."

"How can you joke at a time like this?"

"The same way you can gawk at your ranking officer in a fedora at a time like this."

"Tim!" Janelle suddenly cried.

Jon Gardener was holding her hostage, a knife to her throat. Tim's eyes flew opened.

"They're not real!" Vinnie reminded him. "You said so yourself Tim! She's not your wife!"

"Tim, Baby," Janelle begged.

"Why's she helping Seska's hologram manipulate Tuvok now?" Golwat hissed. "I thought 'Janelle' was on our side!"

"She's not on anyone's side," Xiong said. "She doesn't know she's a hologram. All she knows is that she wants 'Tim' to come home with her."

"Oh god," Golwat suddenly realized. "If Tuvok's focusing on Suder, and his wife in danger, while he's linked mentally with Vorik—"

As if on cue, Vorik cried out and stumbled back, grabbing his head. Neither Golwat nor Xiong was sure what exactly had happened, but it was clear that Tuvok's emotional state had had bad consequences for the link.

Gardener dragged Janelle into the park's restroom facility, and Tim tore in after him.

"I think Lt. Tuovk's a lost cause," Xiong said, and moved on to Harry Kim's panel. She muttered to herself, trying to keep everything straight: "Okay what was Ensign Kim up to again…right. He was running away because his ex-girlfriend said so. Jenkins is chasing him and…Ooo! Look at the Delaney twins in those outfits!"

"Little busy at the moment," Golwat said, still monitoring Tuvok.

* * *

"Megan and Jenny Delaney! Remember?"

Harry Kimitsu stared at the twins.

He was halfway inside a cab, with one foot on the pavement. The cabdriver looked irritated by his potential customer's inability to make up his mind. Sal, Harry's old girlfriend who'd come to help him escape San Francisco, was already in the back seat, staring at him with an urging expression. Down the sidewalk, a block or two away, Nurse Jenkins was still chasing Harry, calling his name desperately. The frantic nurse was earning a number of stares from passersby. But Harry wasn't thinking too hard about Jenkins at the moment. He was busy staring at the two twins in front of him, dressed like showgirls, and claiming they knew him.

The Delaney sisters wore matching tap-dancing outfits—glittering purple suit-dresses with matching top hats. Their brown hair was cut into curled bobs. Their make-up was strong and extreme, meant for a stage, similar to how they did their faces for their roles in Tom Paris's "Captain Proton" program.

"Why isn't this working?" Jenny whispered to her sister.

Harry replied, "Maybe because you're singers, and not actresses." He climbed into the cab, next to Sal, who smiled triumphantly. Harry urged the cab driver, "Take us far away and fast!"

"No wait!" Milly ran around and placed her hands on the front of the car, just as it began to take off. The cab jolted to a halt, practically knocking into her knees. "Please, Sir," she locked eyes with the cab driver. "Just for second."

"I got a schedule lady!" the grumpy, middle-aged man growled.

Jenny came around to the cab driver's window, and leaned over, making sure he saw her cleavage. "Please, Sir," she said seductively. "Just let us talk to our friend, for another minute. And maybe, after that…we'll do a little talking with you."

The cab driver hooked the top of her shirt with his finger, pulling her in close, and growled, "Let you in on a little secret lady; I'm queer."

Then he shifted the car into gear. Megan took the hint and got out of the way. The sisters looked on helplessly as Harry vanished around the road.

Megan hit her com badge, which sat hiding in plain sight, serving as a decorative pin on her collar. "Delaney to Engineering. We lost Kim."

" _We know_ ," Golwat replied. " _And it looks like Neelix found him_."

"What?" the twins exclaimed in unison.

" _He's just getting in the cab with him. Don't worry, he's not pulling a gun or anything. But he's asking him a lot of uncomfortable questions_."

* * *

Ned Felix had indeed squeezed into the cab. Harry Kimitsu was sandwiched between the human flying-monkey, and his old girlfriend.

"…So you didn't see who killed my wife." Ned said flatly.

"No!" Harry exclaimed. "I told you! The last time I saw her was when Billie showed up."

"And Billie had a gun."

Through the pocket of his wet trench coat, Felix was pressing a knife into Harry's side. Harry swallowed, not daring to lie.

"Yes, she was. But it was never aimed at Kaaren! She tried to help her! She warned her to stay away from T—from men. I promise you, if Billie was gonna shoot anyone that night, it woulda' been Tom!"

"Harry," Sal warned, "Why are you talking to this guy? He's probably a spy for the fuzz! You wanna get arrested before you get past the bridge?"

The cab driver grumbled, "What kinda' freak show am I running back here?"

Harry snapped, "The kind that are gonna pay you seven-hundred bucks to get us out of here with no questions asked, okay?!"

The driver continued to grumble.

* * *

"Oh my god." Xiong said.

"What?" Golwat asked, without looking up from Tuvok's panel.

"Harry's cab driver is Captain Braxton. I just realized." She tried to contain her laughter behind her hand.

Golwat was less amused. "Good for him."

* * *

Officer Andrews and Officer Gold accompanied Charles and Annie back to Charles' apartment. Charles remembered Gold from his infantry, along with Marina Jones, Taylor and Chell. And speak of the devil, those three were waiting for him on his doorstep when they got home. He invited them all in, partially out of politeness, partially because he didn't have the energy to tell them to get lost, and partially because he secretly wanted some protection and familiar company.

"You're not going anywhere!" Marina argued as they entered the foyer. "Not by yourself!"

"I don't have to." Charles replied, shrugging his gray suit jacket off. "You're all free to join me if you want. But I'm going to meet Seraphine and get Billie back."

Annie offered, "If by 'meet with Seraphine' you mean 'kill her,' I'll join you."

"No!" Marina hissed in frustration. "By the four deities, don't encourage him!"

Annie and Charles both gave her an odd look, unfamiliar with the Betazoid idiom she'd just used.

"Can I have a carbonated drink?" Chell asked, already pinching up a glass Pepsi bottle from the fridge.

Charles threw Chell a reluctant shrug, while the blue waiter popped the bottle opened and chugged the entire bottle in one long gulp.

Andrews stared at the bottle. "I was wondering when this program was going to include some product placement," he muttered, over Chell's long belch.

"Where's the disposal?" Chell searched the kitchen, holding the empty bottle.

"Closet," Charles gestured to a small pantry closet nearby.

"Charles," Gold stared at his old captain. "You know Andrews and I aren't with Ransom, right?"

Charles pondered it. "I believe you." He turned away. "But I don't want—"

Charles stopped, when he saw Chell frozen in the doorway of the pantry. He came around beside Chell, to see what he was looking at. Boothby—Chalres' trainer and old mentor—lay slumped in the pantry, with several bullet holes in him, his eyes staring ahead blankly. Charles didn't see any note pinned to the body, but Seraphine didn't have to leave one. He remembered the message her underlings had given him during his last beating. Annie's hands came around his arm.

"Charles," she whispered. "You knew him?"

Shaking, Charles took Annie gently and pushed her into Gold. "Keep her here. Don't let her out of your sight."

He turned away, his eyes set and determined, clearly on a mission.

Taylor grabbed Charles' arm. "Charles wait!"

Charles punched Taylor's ridged nose, sending him stumbling back into Annie. Annie then shoved Taylor out of her way, knocking him into Gold, and hurried after Charles. Before any of the others could stop either of them, Charles was gearing up his car, and Annie was jumping into the front seat. She said something that apparently convinced him to bring her along. Marina and Andrews ran out onto the porch just in time to see the car take off.

"What happened to 'we can join you?'" Marina shouted angrily, as the car vanished into the night.

"I'll call a cab." Tabor said, nursing his bloodied nosecone. "Where's the phone?"

"He doesn't have one." Ayala sighed. "It's the '40s, remember? Only rich people have telephones."

Tabor swore harshly in Bajoran.

" _Doctor to all hands_ ," the Doctor's voice came in over their hidden com badges. " _Rendezvous at Leola's Diner. We have some desperate changes in tactics to discuss_."

"Jor to the Doctor," Marina said, hitting the hidden badge in her red coat's breast pocket. "Chakotay and Seven are about to get themselves killed."

" _They and the rest of the senior staff. Get to the coffee shop, as fast as you can._ "


	19. Process of Elimination

Almost all the members of the "rescue mission" were gathered inside Leola's Diner, still in costume. The red-haired waitress looked like she'd given up trying to figure out what the hell was going on in her restaurant, and when "Officer Andrews" and "Officer Gold" hurried back in, two minutes before close, to tell her they required a spot for a police meeting, she just sighed and pulled out a "Wonder Woman" comic (the original series from the '40s). The coffee shop was silent, save the occasional sound of a passing car or conversing street goers, as the rescue team waited for the last few members to arrive.

The Doctor scanned the group behind his round glasses. Andrews was falling asleep. Sam, Naomi and Icheb sat around a small table, their hair and clothes finally starting to dry off. Jor, Tabor and Chell sat at another table. The Delaney twins were perched on the café counter, still in their glittering tap dancer outfits. Vorik, still recovering from his botched "mind meld" with Tuvok, was meditating next to the jukebox, his fedora pulled down shading his face. The barista no doubt just took him for another artsy jazz enthusiast (the Doctor would've never taken the young Vulcan for a Louis Armstrong fan, but the hologram stood corrected.) Ensign Jenkins paced slowly, still in her nurse uniform. Ayala was trying to look like he wasn't looking, and falling hilariously.

They were still missing three people. Where the hell were Tal Celes, Billy Telfer, and Mortimer Harren? The holodeck wasn't that big. The Doctor impatiently shook out his brown fedora before placing it back over his head.

In an attempt to break the silence, Ayala commented to Amelia Jenkins, "You look good in a skirt."

Jenkins smiled at her boyfriend. "You look good in uniform."

"Any uniform?" Ayala pressed.

Before the conversation could go further, the bell jingled as the café's door swung opened. Tal, Billy and Mortimer hurried into the coffee shop, all still in their waiting outfits.

Tal collapsed into a chair, her brunette curls disheveled and her dollish makeup smeared. "Sorry," the Bajoran said breathlessly. "Kitty Indiana wanted our help setting up for the auction, and we didn't know how to slip away without looking suspicious."

Billy took a seat next to her. "So what'd we miss?"

"Nothing." The Doctor straightened his glasses. "But now that everyone's present, I'll cut to the chase. We're losing our fight with Seska. Every time we get close to talking sense into one of the senior staff, one of her holograms talks it back out of them."

"And we can't delete any of the holograms." Jenny Delaney sighed, shaking out her glittering top hat.

"But," Sam Wildman pointed out, "If we _can_ find some way to get rid of those holograms, Seska can't bring them back. Once you die in this program, you're out of the game."

"Just a moment," the Doctor frowned at Samantha. "You're not suggesting we _kill_ these characters?"

The room went silent, as everyone turned the idea over.

Suddenly, the barista behind the counter squealed. "You're not really cops! Your writers! Oh my god, are you working on a comic book?"

"Yes!" Ayala said quickly. "You can have an early issue for letting us use this place as our conference room, and it's free as long as you don't tell anyone about it. We don't want spoilers."

The barista nodded giddily. It would've been a hilarious sight, if not for the fact that she was a physical clone of the late Ensign Ballard.

"What were we talking about?" Ayala asked quietly.

"Killing Seska's holograms," Tabor replied.

" _No_." the Doctor said forcefully.

"Why not?" the Bajoran looked at the Doctor, almost angrily. "They're just characters."

" _We_ know that," Jenkins reminded him. "But the senior staff doesn't. For all they know, we'd be murdering their family and friends."

Mortimer Harren shrugged under his gold bartender's tux. "Who says they have to know we did it?"

Megan Delaney's face brightened. "We could pin the killings on Seraphine! That would not only get those holograms out of the way, but also convince the senior staff to unite against Seska!"

Her twin liked the idea. "Kill two birds with one stone!"

The Doctor's eyes were bulging behind his spectacles. "I can't believe any of you are considering this! We're Starfleet officers! We don't solve our dilemmas through murder!"

"They're holograms, Doctor," Icheb reminded him.

" _I'm_ a hologram!"

Andrews threw the Doctor a look. "I never heard you complain about people dying in Tom's 'Captain Proton' program. Hell a lot of us kill holograms all the time in 'Lord of the Rings' and 'The Latinum Throne.'"

"That's different," The Doctor argued. "Those holograms aren't sentient, they're…" he trailed off, realizing the fault in his own argument.

Needlessly, Icheb said, "Neither are Seska's characters."

"You've permanently deleted holograms yourself, Doctor," Jenkins said. "Crel Moset, the Equinox Doctor."

The Doctor's face continued to fall. "It just doesn't feel right. Killing off their loved ones, and framing someone else for it. It sounds like something Seska would do."

"This is Seska's game," Marina Jor said quietly. "Maybe the way to win is to play by her rules."

"You're willing to sink to Seska's level?" the Doctor challenged.

"I was willing to sink to the Cardassians' level to protect the citizens of my colony back home," Jor said sternly. "Doctor, in the last seven years, this crew has formed an alliance with the Borg, killed a sentient transporter accident, used medical research from a Cardassian butcher, and violated the Temporal Prime Directive, all to save this crew. And now you're asking us to hesitate over 'killing' a line of un-sentient, holodeck props? To save the senior staff, who we owe our lives to a hundred times over?"

Looking around the café, the Doctor could see he was out-voted. Finally he asked reluctantly, "How do you suggest we go about this?"

Naomi offered, almost eagerly, "Poison?"

Her mother gave her a disturbed look.

Jenkins eyed Ayala, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Miguel?"

Ayala glance at her. "There's an old cliché for crime programs like this one. Towards the end of the story, the protagonists will be attending a baptism, or a speech, or some other social event, and it's inter-spliced with scenes of his henchmen going around town, killing all his enemies."

Jenkins' blond eyebrows rose.

Catching on, Andrews said, "So if we can't make the holograms disappear in the literal sense, we can make them 'disappear' in the Mafia sense!"

Naomi perked up. "So we'd all split up, and each pick someone to kill? Can I kill Seska? I've been practicing with the pea shooter Neelix, or Ned Felix, gave me. I think if I sneak up on her, I can get her right in the spoon—except she's a Bajoran right now, so she doesn't have a spoon—"

Her mother whispered, "Naomi, for _god's_ sake!"

"We can probably spare Tom and B'Elanna their fathers," Jor mused. "B'Elanna's dad can't do much damage from prison, and Admiral Paris probably doesn't even _have_ a hologram for us to kill. I suspect he's just a voice on a telephone."

Ayala nodded. "But the ones who are interfering,"

The Doctor's mortified expression returned. "There _must_ be some other way besides killing them! What about simply taking them hostage? Pose as police officers, have them arrested…"

Ayala stared at the Doctor. "You think we could catch and contain all of Seska's holograms, before she caught on and coughed up some more? Need I remind you Doc that all of these holograms are programmed to be professional killers."

Andrews added, "Remember 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

The Doctor realized they really were out of options. Because however these holograms appeared or acted, the fact was that they were just Seska's tools. Weapons, designed by an insane Cardassian genius.

"If you have any other ideas, Doctor," Vorik said quietly.

The Doctor grimaced.

* * *

Naomi reluctantly accompanied her mother and Icheb to Kitty Indiana's auction. She didn't think it was fair, her and Icheb being excluded from the killing spree. She wasn't a child anymore, and as she pointed out to her mother, many notable murderers like Bugsy Siegel and Lucky Luciano had begun their careers as teenagers. But her mother countered that those men had the advantages of being born psychopaths, and Naomi, a sane Ktarian/human girl, would have to spend years training to reach that same level of detachment. So instead, she, Icheb, and her mom would help the group by "keeping tabs" on the auction, and bidding for the Bird.

"Why do they need us here?" Naomi grumbled, as her mother led her and Icheb through the maze of tables. "Can't we let one of these holograms buy the Bird, and then mug them on their way home?"

"Time is of the essence," Icheb reminded her. "Until that statuette is removed from the holodeck, we can't shut off this program. If the Bird is still on the holodeck when we turn it off—"

"I know," Naomi sighed, shoving a red curl out of her face. "Then it'll dissolve back into the ship and all our systems will shut down and we'll die."

She folded her arms, and turned her attention to the front of the room. Kitty Indiana was standing in the middle of the stage, in a red velvet suit-dress with a rose pinned to one lapel. Her matching velvet eye-patch sported a miniature rose, contrasting the hard look in her visible eye. Kitty surveyed the arriving guests with her hands on her hips. The silver, jewel-encrusted bird sat behind her on a black podium.

Naomi searched the café for the rest of the senior staff, and quickly realized none of them were there. She recalled being told that Chakotay and Seven were off chasing Seska, who of course still had B'Elanna hostage. Tom was also out there, somewhere, trying to find his wife (without knowing she was his wife). Neelix was out looking for Tuvok, who was probably wandering around town mind-melding parking meters. And the Doctor, of course, couldn't come anywhere near the café, as Kitty had banned him from the city.

The hum of conversation and bustling waiters silenced at Kitty Indiana's voice. "Ladies and gentleman," the club runner announced, "before we get this auction underway, I'd like to welcome a handful of very special guests tonight. Men and women who've traveled from across the country to bid on this priceless artifact. People you've no doubt read about in the papers and heard about on the radio."

Naomi remembered that many famous gangsters had been invited to this auction. With a newfound excitement, she whispered, "Are we gonna see Al Capone? And Bugsy Siegel?"

"Bugsy Siegel has already been killed when this program takes place," Icheb reminded her.

"Our first guest tonight," Kitty gestured flamboyantly towards the café door, "Is possibly the most notorious businessman in the world, Mr. Al Capone!"

All heads turned to the doorway, where a man in a pinstriped suit and matching fedora was striding forward, carrying himself like royalty. But he didn't look anything like the Al Capone Naomi had seen in the ship's database, or in Tom Paris's mob documentary. The real Al Capone was of European descent, not African. And he had hair. And no goatee. Actually, this guy looked a lot like…

Sam Wildman stared. " _Captain Sisko_?"

It _was_. The man who'd captained the space station that Naomi's Ktarian father was currently living on was striding through the café, dressed and carrying himself like a twentieth-century gangster. Sisko looked spiffy in his suit, but was clearly making no effort to look anything like Al Capone. As he strode through the sea of tables, dipping his hat in greetings to various patrons, he noticed Naomi, Sam and Icheb staring, and made a stop at their table.

"Something tells me you three weren't expecting Al Capone," the captain of Deep Space Nine grinned slowly, his deep voice taking a tone of sinister amusement.

Samantha eyed him up dubiously. " _You're_ Al Capone?"

"Who did you think you were talking to?" he drawled, adjusting a cufflink.

Naomi, Sam and Icheb looked at each other, then back at the gangster before them.

"I knew you'd be here, Mr. Capone," Samantha said carefully. "You just look a bit different than in the photographs."

"Indeed," Icheb added, far too bluntly. "Your height and weight have increased and decreased, respectively."

Naomi muttered, "Plus I'm pretty sure Capone was white."

"Al Capone" stared at Naomi. "All Italians tan well, Missy." He turned to Icheb. "But, I appreciate that you noticed I've lost weight."

From the stage, Kitty suddenly gestured to Naomi. "Our next three guests began their careers when they weren't much older than this young woman." Her arm waved back towards the door. "Ladies and gentleman, please welcome my friends Mr. Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel, and Lucky Luciano!"

"Wait a minute," Naomi straightened in her chair. "I thought Bugsy was supposed to be dead already!"

Icheb's eyebrow slowly crept up, as he craned his neck around for a better view. "I don't think Seska is aiming for historical accuracy anymore."

Naomi followed Icheb's gaze to the three new gangsters entering the café: Dr. Leonard McCoy, Commander Spock, and Captain James T. Kirk. Spock carried a briefcase, and seemed the most modestly dressed, in a plain black suit and fedora. McCoy looked a bit fancier, in a dark blue suit, and an expensive looking pinky ring. Captain Kirk appeared the most ridiculous, in an awful checkered suit, scanning the room with quick, homicidal eyes.

McCoy grumbled to Spock, "I'm telling you Meyer, we shouldn'a brought Bugsy! The first person to out-bid us, he'll probably cut their throat and go on another rampage!"

The Vulcan replied coolly, "You are overreacting, Luciano. Bugsy's publicity will be an advantage for our business."

Kirk whipped around and snapped threateningly at Spock, " _Don't call me Bugsy!_ "

Samantha Wildman moved back around in her chair. "Oookay."

"Maybe this part wasn't Seska's writing," Naomi mused. "This _was_ Tom's program to start with, after all."

Her mother gave a tiny nod. "This does seem Tom and Harry's style of humor."

"But of course," Kitty Indiana continued from the stage, "Bug— _Benjamin_ Siegel wouldn't come alone. His lady friend, the famously beautiful Virginia Hill, A.K.A. 'the Flamingo.'" She gestured gracefully to the door once again.

A dark woman clutching an expensive fur coat strode into the café. Her short brunette hair was oiled into elaborate waves, framing a sultry, uncaring face with pointed eyebrows, and revealing pointed ears dangling extravagant diamond earrings. She stopped at Kirk, Spock and McCoy's table, where she dropped the fur coat onto a chair, revealing a… _revealing_ gold evening gown. A slit up the skirt allowed her to show off her fishnet-covered legs as she crossed them while sinking into her chair.

"Commander T'Pol," Icheb observed, as the Vulcan woman fished out a long cigarette and impassively let Kirk light it for her. "Of the Enterprise NX-01."

"Next," Indiana said, "The King of the Rum Runners, and a personal family friend, please welcome the very Irish Bugs Moran!"

By now, no one was surprised to see the very French (and British accented) Captain Jean Luc Picard enter, in bright green, dipping his bowler hat cordially.

"Oh!" Kitty said, as if she'd forgotten something. "And Mr. Frank Costello, tax-evasion extraordinaire!"

Data, the most famous artificial life-form in the Federation, jogged through the door in a black suit with thin gold pinstripes.

"Everyone," Kitty's voice had an edge to it now, "I ask you all to stay where you are, and to please remain calm. The next guest has a temper, but he won't act out of he's not provoked. Some of you may have heard of Mr. Albert Anastasia."

This guy, Naomi knew about. She whispered to Icheb, "Albert Anastasia's one of the most vicious hit-men who ever…oh."

She trailed off as Lt. Reg Barclay sauntered through the door, hands in the pockets of a gray suit, scanning the room under the shadow of a white fedora. His viciousness was so over the top, Naomi would've thought it was the real Barclay trying way too hard to play a villain in a role-playing game.

Kitty's expression warmed. "Ladies, those of you with weak hearts may want to avert your eyes. Because our last guest tonight is known for turning the most icy girls to jelly, with just a glance of his...well, ladies and gents, Mr. Baby-Face Nelson!"

Naomi wondered if the Ferengi who strode into the café was based on anyone in particular. The wearied disgust on her mother's face told her that Ensign Wildman was familiar with "Baby Face."

" _Quark_." Samantha muttered. "Tom put _Quark_ in this program."

Naomi whispered, "Is he that Ferengi on DS9, whose bar you and Dad used to go to?"

"We had a few dates there. It was a little sleazy for our taste." A sickened expression came over Sam's face. " _Ugh_ , she wasn't kidding about having to avert my eyes."

Sandrine, Constance Goodheart, Freya, and half a dozen other female characters from the holodeck were swarming "Baby Face" with gleeful smiles and bashful waves. Even T'Pol was turning her attention away from Captain Kirk to glance over at Quark with interest. Naomi simply raised her eyebrows at the scene.

"Alright!" Kitty Indiana bellowed. "Let's get this auction underway!"

* * *

Tal Celes heard her high heels clop down the street, felt the cool air hitting her face. Her only consolation that this wasn't real was the program's setting. Being a Bajoran, this piece of Earth history seemed just a little too alien for her to relate to. The odd blocky buildings, the strangely symmetrical clothing styles, the bizarre noises from the vehicles these ancient humans drove, no society in Bajor's history had resembled this. The grit of this city combined with the colorful fashion and upbeat culture made it seem to Tal like some bizarre hybrid of the green, pre-Occupied Bajor, and the dark, smoky, Cardassian-ruled one. Tal wondered if Humans had been destroying and improving themselves simultaneously throughout their history, or if they just had a preference for a little more grit than Bajorans overall did.

In any case, it was surprisingly difficult for Tal to convince herself that this wasn't real. It didn't help that she'd grown up without holodecks, so being surrounded by such realistic-looking figures in the midst of such convincing hustle and conversation was almost like magic. Just how sentient were these holograms? Would any of them notice her acting suspiciously? Might a pair of holographic eyes land on the hand in her coat pocket, clutching her pea-shooter?

Tal remembered that she herself was a hologram, at the moment. She wasn't really here, on the holodeck. Her body was asleep in Sickbay, along with Billy, Mortimer, Sam Wildman, and the rest of the rescue team. But she still had to be careful; if she "died" in this game, she couldn't come back.

She made her way to the beach, and stepped onto a long dock that extended over the ocean. At the very end of the dock stood Kitty Indiana's fiancé, Mayhew. He was overlooking the water, with his back to Tal. She could hear the wood creaking beneath her shoes, the spray of the sea on her face. _It's not real. That isn't Captain Janeway's fiancé. That's a puppet, Seska's puppet_.

Mayhew slowly turned at the sound of Tal's heels. "Kitty," he began. "I was wondering when y—"

His voice startled Tal's hand into action, and she found herself whipping the gun out of her pocket and pulling the trigger before Mayhew was even fully turned to face her. The bullet hit him in the corner of his forehead, the gunshot echoing across the beach. Mayhew tumbled backwards over the dock, and a large splash followed. Tal swiftly pocketed her gun and spun on her heel, briskly walking back down the pier.

At the end of the dock, a car pulled up in the sand. At the wheel was Mortimer Harren. Billy Telfer sat in the back seat, and made sure the door was opened when Tal reached the car. The Bajoran jumped in and they took off.

* * *

"Five hundred dollars!" Captain Sisko—or "Al Capone"—called out.

Dr. McCoy's hand almost shot up, but Spock quickly stopped it. Naomi heard the Vulcan whisper to his comrade, "Do not place any bets yet, Lucky. Do as I advised. Be patient."

Sam Wildman muttered, "Probably good advice."

"Six hundred," called Captain Picard.

"Six hundred fifty!" Sisko quickly countered.

Picard and Sisko exchanged a hostile glare.

"Six hundred fifty thousand!" Barclay shouted.

Kitty carefully replied from the stage, "Remember that you're only allowed to bet money you actually have, Mr. Anastasia."

Scowling, Barclay put his hand back down.

* * *

Vorik waited in a tight alley, pressing himself against the wet brick wall. According to Golwat, the Lon Suder hologram was doing rounds around this neighborhood, in an attempt to taunt Tuvok. Vorik finally saw the Betazoid coming down the street, whistling "Hall of the Mountain King." As soon as he was close enough, Vorik reached out and grabbed "Jon Gardener's" long scarf, yanking him into the alley. Before the shocked Betazoid could react, Vorik grabbed a hold of his head and twisted, snapping his neck. Vorik dropped Suder's wide-eyed corpse right there in the alley, and with it, an unknown amount of stress.

The young Vulcan stepped over the body and briskly crossed the street, hands in his pockets. He began whistling, picking up "Hall of the Mountain King" where Gardener had left off.

* * *

"Naomi, stop fidgeting," Sam Wildman whispered, under the echoes of the betting gangsters.

Naomi was half-consciously tearing her napkin into quarters. "I will when you place a frikking bet."

"We have to do this carefully Naomi." Her mother said. "Be patient."

Naomi fisted up her torn napkin, then finally relaxed.

She decided to distract herself by seeing how many familiar faces she could identify in this program Constance Goodheart and Dr. Chaotica were at a table near the front, and Chaotica's little henchman was the bartender. That Jewish guy who'd bid them "Shalom" on the trolley here had definitely been Captain Janeway's Da Vinci hologram. At a nearby table, Jordan Baker from "The Great Gatsby" was talking to Gaunt Gary, from Tom's bar program. One of the other gangsters was Captain Hook, smoking his famous double-cigar, and his moll was Freya from "Beowulf."

Naomi folded her arms on the table. "Whoever wrote this thing had too much time on their hands."

"Seska," Icheb reminded her. "And yes, she does."

* * *

The holographic cab driver modeled after Captain Braxton was asleep in his vehicle, parked outside of the Queen's Cabin. An issue of Scientific American lay opened in his lap, to an article about time-paradoxes. He stirred awake at the sound of his car door opening. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he reached for the reading glasses that had fallen onto his magazine. Not a second after the glasses were on, the right lens broke into a spider web crack, and Braxton slumped back in his seat, blood draining from his right eye socket, the remaining left eye staring ahead blankly.

Crewman Mortimer Harren pocketed the pea shooter Tal Celes had loaned him, and then picked up Braxton's magazine. Holding the issue opened in front of his face was a good way to hide his identity as he casually strolled away from the scene, but Mortimer was also genuinely interested in the article. It had been a while since he'd been able to enjoy a good read, and he was curious to see how complete this holodeck prop was.

* * *

Naomi didn't remember fidgeting or kicking her feet like this since before Icheb had come aboard. Either this "game" was bringing her inner child back out, or she was starting to have a panic attack.

Kitty Indiana made eye contact with "Bugsy Siegel." "Any offers from Las Vegas?"

Kirk glanced nervously at T'Pol, who was now sitting in his lap. She looked up at him expectantly, as if silently demanding to know if he was man enough. He began, "Te—"

"Not yet." Spock interrupted.

Sam whispered to her daughter, "Naomi what's wrong?"

"I'm, I…"

"It's alright," Sam assured her. "We're safe in here. Bet you're glad not to be part of that 'killing spree' now!"

"I _am_ part of it." Naomi confessed quickly. "Kind of."

Sam stared at her daughter. Icheb cocked his head curiously.

* * *

"Willy" sat in a small, dirty alley, preparing a drug needle over one spotted arm. The Talaxian winced as he pierced himself, and then closed his eyes. For a few moments, he seemed to relish the drug. Then he suddenly jerked, convulsed, and crumbled to the ground, his yellow eyes half opened.

The Doctor stepped into the alley from around the corner, and bent over to examine the holographic Talaxian's corpse.

Finding no pulse, the Doctor realized he wasn't feeling the same kind of remorse he did when a sentient hologram met its end. When characters died, it was more like seeing a very simplistic lifeform, like a fish or a small bird, dead on the road. It still brought up some emotion, but not like a person's. Though it sometimes depended on how well he'd "known" the character. With Freya, the character he'd grown close to in Harry Kim's "Beowulf" program, that feeling was probably something like a human losing a pet; but with this hologram of Wix, it was more like a human looking at a random piece of roadkill.

The Doctor finally pushed himself up, and straightened his brown suit. "You brew a good poison, Miss Wildman." He sighed. "What have Seven and Neelix been teaching you?"

* * *

Naomi shrugged innocently at her mother. "It was like mixing Talaxian p'tali dip. I did like Neelix taught me, but used Willy's morphine as the base, and rat poison instead of the Talaxian spices."

She was speaking in a whisper, though she could probably have used her normal voice and none of the betting holograms or brainwashed Captain Janeway would have noticed. Her mother and Icheb stared at her as if she'd just sprouted a Borg wheel on her cheek.

"It works for both of us Mom!" Naomi insisted. "I get to be safely away while it's happening, like you want, but I still get to contribute to the bloodbath!"

Sam blinked slowly. "Do you often murder people on the holodeck?"

Naomi gave it some thought, then shrugged again. "Not in cold blood. But I've off-ed a few orcs and Vikings in 'Beowulf' and 'Lord of the Rings.'"

"Ten thousand!" Sisko's voice suddenly rang out, bringing them back to the auction. "I bid ten thousand!"

* * *

No one got in "Officer Gold's" way as Ayala strolled into the barber shop. One of the Kazon sat in the chair, reading a newspaper, while the baffled barber pondered what to do with his customer's wild, fungus-like hair. Ayala remembered how he'd killed Maj Culla's hologram back in the subway station. He never allowed himself to think about whether killing Kazons, Cardassians, or Borg drones made him feel guilty, or if he enjoyed it; it was just something that needed to be done by someone, and it might as well be him. But every once in a while, emotion would come close to getting the better of him, and he'd find himself almost hesitating. Or worse, anticipating.

The barber was attempting to get an opinion from his disinterested customer. "Maybe you'd like to try a crew cut? A buzzsaw might do the tri—"

The poor barber literally jumped when Ayala swiped the large scissors from his hands, and in one smooth motion, flicked them opened and drew one blade across the shocked Kazon's throat. While the blood poured down the white bib the barber had placed under the Kazon's chin, Ayala used a remaining white portion to wipe off the scissors, and handed them back to the petrified barber. Then Ayala turned and headed for the door.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ayala saw a second Kazon spring up from the waiting area, tossing his magazine aside, and run for the door. Ayala didn't change his pace, or even acknowledge the Kazon. He watched the Kazon run ahead of him, out of the building, and tear onto the street. Where he was instantly mowed down by a car. The automobile backed up a few feet, and Ayala saw Marina Jor at the wheel, still impeccably dressed in her red coat and hat. She leaned out her window to check that the Kazon on the street was dead, while Ayala hurried into the seat next to her.

* * *

The third and final Kazon witnessed his comrade's death through the revolving glass door of a department store across the street. He readied his gun, and stepped into the revolving door.

Chell quickly moved out of his hiding place, and with one blue hand, locked the revolving door, trapping the Kazon inside. It took a moment for the Kazon to realize what had happened. He slammed his hand on the glass, his back to Chell, apparently thinking the door was simply stuck. Then Tabor marched up the street, drawing a gun from his sweeping trench coat. Panicking, the Kazon spun around, and found himself facing the end of Chell's pistol. Chell and Tabor shot simultaneously.

Large spider web cracks began to form in the glass, while the bleeding Kazon slumped to the floor.

* * *

"I'll raise you eleven!" Quark yelled, in response to Sisko's bid.

T'Pol and Kirk were now smooching and feeling each other up, in a manner that was clearly making several people uncomfortable. Spock kept throwing his comrade disapproving glances. Picard wrinkled his nose. For Naomi, it was like a train wreck she couldn't look away from.

"Twelve-hundred," Kitty Indiana called. "Do I hear—"

"Twelve-fifty!" Sam Wildman finally called.

"Twelve-hundred fifty-one!" Spock said.

"Thirteen hundred!" Sam countered.

"Thirteen fifty!" Kirk practically screamed, causing poor T'Pol to grab her pointed ears in pain. He quickly patted her head, in apology.

* * *

The part of twin mafia hit-women wasn't unfamiliar territory for Megan and Jenny Delaney, having spent a good several years playing the Twin Mistresses of Evil in Tom's "Captain Proton" program. The twins waited around the subway entrance in the middle of the street, their glittering tap dancing outfits hidden under long dusty trench coats, their faces shadowed by plain brown hats. Megan stood a ways down the stairwell, while Jenny waited up top, next to the lamp post.

Harry and "Sal" finally stepped out of their cab and began heading towards the subway station. Watching them, Jenny felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the alien woman who "Sal" was based off of. Neither she nor Megan had known Derran Tal personally, but from what Harry told them she was a nice and intelligent person, and Jenny had always admired the woman's cute elf-like face. But this was just a game. If they could torment a "Captain Proton" character played by Harry Kim, they could "whack" a character being "played" by Harry's ex-girlfriend.

As soon as Harry and Sal began to descend the steps, Jenny was following them, her switch-blade ready. As soon as she was close enough, Jenny stuck the knife into Sal's back, and left it there, continuing down the steps. In the shadows on the brick wall, she saw Harry and Sal pause, as Sal convulsed. Then Megan coming up, from the opposite direction. The twins' eyes met as they passed on the staircase, and a second later, Jenny saw the shadow of her sister slashing Sal's throat. The twins did the job so quickly and smoothly that Harry never saw either of them.

Jenny heard Harry calling Sal's name as she headed down the steps, and vanished into the crowd.

* * *

"Fourteen hundred!" Picard bellowed.

"Fourteen fifty!" Sisko followed.

"Fourteen fifty-five!" Samantha called desperately.

By now Naomi had shredded her napkin and was twisting Icheb's into a rope. She, Icheb and her mom were here placing bets, the Doctor and the other officers were off killing Seska's holograms, and where was Seska? In a hideout somewhere, holding B'Elanna and her unborn baby hostage. And Seven and Neelix, they were off lost in the city somewhere. Chakotay, Harry, Tuvok and Tom too. And what about the other members of the "rescue team?" What if Seska's holograms were too powerful for Vorik, the Delaney twins, and the rest, and someone got killed?

Icheb softly tapped his com badge under his suit, and quietly said, "Icheb to Golwat."

The Bolian woman's voice replied, matching his whisper, "Golwat here."

"The status of the senior staff, please. I believe Naomi is concerned."

"Seven and Chakotay are in a car, driving…somewhere. Seska's in a basement, talking to B'Elanna." Who was still tied up and held at gunpoint, Naomi thought. "Tuvok's taking a nap on a park bench. Or mind-melding it, I can't tell. Harry's talking to a police officer. Neelix is waiting for a bus. Tom's driving his car around, looking for B'Elanna I assume. And of course you're looking at Captain Janeway."

Naomi could take a tiny comfort, at least, in the fact that she could see Captain Janeway alive and well, here at the auction.

* * *

Lt. Todd Andrews took a drag from his holographic cigarette, and rested his arm in the opened window of the car. At the wheel was Marina Jor, and next to her, Lt. Ayala. They'd picked up Andrews shortly after "whacking" the three Kazon. The car sat in front of a court house, engine rumbling, at the bottom of a massive staircase.

Andrews took another drag from his cigarette. In real life, the "Starfleet brat" would never have been caught dead smoking, or killing someone in cold blood. Not even on the holodeck. But with his body asleep in sickbay, and his consciousness wandering this program in a holographic vessel, Andrews had chosen to think of this entire adventure as a bizarre dream. Actually, that was often how he coped with being lost in the Delta Quadrant for seven years.

But one thing was undeniably real, and that was the deaths he'd seen on this journey. Specifically, two faces came to Andrews' mind: Diego Ivanov, and Ora Ty. Diego had been a lower-decks security officer, and good friend of Andrews and Ayala. He used to be a regular at a weekly poker night the security guards held, in alternating members' quarters. Ora Ty was a Bajoran and former Maquis, a few years older than Andrews; they'd been dating at the time of the Equinox incident. Both Diego and Ty had been killed by the aliens Captain Ransom had provoked, Diego in the first attack, and Ty near the end, just before the Equinox itself was destroyed. During the memorial ceremony for the deceased, Captain Janeway had commended Ransom's final act of heroism, as if it somehow made up for his crimes. In Andrew's mind, it didn't. Good old Starfleet-bred Todd Andrews would never contradict his captain out loud; but he wasn't above acting out on his feelings in this holo-simulation.

And here was his chance. Ransom strolled out of the courthouse, in that ugly yellow suit, grinning smugly. As usual, Andrews and Ayala carried out their assignment without uttering two words to each other. Andrews hoisted up his Tommy gun, propped it in the opened car window, and emptied its bullets into Captain Ransom's hologram. As soon as the gun began clicking emptily, Ayala took the car away at full speed.

* * *

The various bidders were shouting over each other, as Kitty Indiana worked futilely to calm them all. Amidst the bickering, Spock stood up, and said calmly, "Fifty thousand."

It took a few moments for the room to fully silence, but soon everyone was staring at the Vulcan. Kitty Indiana looked impressed. Quark, who until now had been occupied with the women surrounding him, dropped his grin to stare at the Vulcan in horror and fury. The only two people not looking at Spock were Kirk and T'Pol, who were eating each other's faces.

Naomi looked from Spock to her mother.

Sam swallowed, and began to rise.

Suddenly, Barclay sprang up. "Sixty-thousand!"

Kirk snapped, "You don't have sixty-thousand dollars!"

"But out, Bugsy." Barclay snapped.

Kirk tossed T'Pol off his lap, sending the shocked Vulcan woman into Captain Picard and Data's table, and lunged madly at Barclay. Fists flew. Kirk took a hold of Barclay's ear with his teeth. Barclay swiped a wine bottle from a passing waiter's tray and brought it over Kirk's head.

"Gentleman, please!" Kitty urged from the stage.

Data gestured to the two brawling men and exclaimed, "Who decided it was a good idea to let Bugsy Seigal and Albert Anasatsia in the same room together?"

Kirk whirled around, his wild eyes boring into the android's. " _DON'T! CALL ME! BUGSY!_ " He grabbed a knife off a nearby table and lunged at Data. But the android was ready with a white fist, and effortlessly sent Kirk backwards into Barclay, knocking both men to the ground.

Apparently, that was the cue for the rest of the café to begin the obligatory, clichéd brawl.

Kirk and Barclay were at each other again. Data and Spock got into a heated argument, that somehow inspired Data to turn a table over, and Spock to reply with a punch. But hitting the android's face, even for a Vulcan, was like punching iron, and Spock quickly retracted his fist in pain. Data then returned the punch, sending Spock to the floor. This caused McCoy to swing a wooden chair into Data, which resulted in lots of shattered wood and an unmoved android.

Meanwhile, T'Pol pulled Kirk up from the floor, out of Barclay's grasp, but only so she could give him a hard slap across the face. Then she tossed him back down into his previous fight, and stalked off towards the bar.

Other auction guests were either stampeding out of the building, joining in on the fight, or weaving their way through the brawls to the bar. Lonzak the bar tender ducked behind his counter as Quark went flying overhead, crashing into a shelf of bottles. Picard then did an athletic leap over the counter, to continue pummeling the Ferengi.

Near their table, Naomi saw a businessman who looked suspiciously like the wizard from "Lord of the Rings" deliver a vicious punch to the aristocrat based on Chaotica. The Constance hologram screamed at the sight of her husband falling to the floor, and continued screaming even as she slapped Gandalf in retaliation. On the other side of the cafe, Jordan Baker from "The Great Gatsby" was chasing Gaunt Gary, whacking him in the back with her golf club.

Poor Kitty Indiana was trying to shout over the noise, ineffectively working to stop just one of the fights.

Over the chaos, Sam Wildman shouted, "A million!" Realizing that her voice hardly stood out in this noise, Sam pushed out of her chair and climbed onto the table. "ONE MILLION!" she screamed. "I BET A MILLION DOLLARS!"

* * *

Thanks to Golwat, Amelia Jenkins knew to wait for Max Burke in the elevator of a the Prancing Pony Hotel, not far from where Vorik had "taken care of" Suder. If Seska had programmed Max to be as much of a pig as the real Equinox first officer, this shouldn't be too hard.

The elevator doors opened, and Max stepped in. Not surprisingly, his face brightened at the sight of a blond woman in a short skirt.

Max's eyes moved up and down Jenkins' body, as the elevator took off. "You look like a girl who works too much. One who could use a good time."

Jenkins smiled tightly. "You look like one of those men who only cares about others when it's convenient."

"What gives you that idea?" Max asked playfully.

"You just remind me of someone." Jenkins looked away. "A guy who dated a co-worker of mine. Acted like they were chummy old ex-lovers, then left her to die at the hands of the trans-dimensional alien race he'd been helping to kill off."

Max's stared at Jenkins. "What are you on, and why aren't you sharing it?"

Jenkins turned to face him, still holding her smile. "Well," she said softly, "I guess I could share a little." She fished a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of her nurse uniform. As she slid one joint out to offer him, she could feel the slick, oily compound she'd dipped all the cigarettes in before re-packaging them.

Max greedily took the cigarette and stick it between his teeth. "What are these, reefers?"

"Why don't you find out."

It was the oldest cliché in the book, as far as Jenkins was concerned. The old cigarette-doused-in-flammable-chemicals trick. Amelia Jenkins was too soft-hearted to actually watch as Max lit up that joint. So instead, she watched the blurred reflection of the flames flaring up in the closed elevator doors, and felt the heat behind her. Damn, these programs were so real. When the doors finally opened, she was relieved to step out into the cool hallway. Casually, she pulled the fire alarm on her way out of the building.

* * *

The café wasn't exactly silenced. Several gangsters were still fighting. Behind the table her mother stood on, Naomi could still see Kirk and Barclay on the floor, rolling around, punching and biting each other. Quark went flying over the bar counter again. But Sam had Kitty Indiana's attention, and throughout the cafe, the brawl was slowly dying down. Sandrine quickly smashed a potted plant over Dr. Chaotica's head, then straightened her suit and dented top hat, and looked up at Samantha attentively.

"Do you have the money with you?" Kitty asked Samantha.

The fighting was finally finished. T'Pol stood up from behind a table, her hair frazzled, and wiped a bloodied nose. Reg Barclay followed, with two black eyes and a busted lip. Kirk was draped unconscious across a table.

Sam gapped at Kitty's question. "Do I have…?"

"The cash." Kitty repeated.

Sam swallowed. "Well I, I can write you a check, can't I?"

Kitty opened her mouth to reply, but Spock cut her off.

"With what bank account?" Spock challenged, brushing off his torn and stained suit.

Sam looked nervously at the Vulcan. "I don't see that being any of your business."

"I have my money right here." Spock pulled the cash out of his suit.

 _Shit._

Naomi knew that none of them had the money that was needed. Seska had made it impossible to just replicate money, "real" or holographic, for this program. The plan had been for Ensign Wildman to cheat, buy the statue with money she didn't really have. Then get the Bird out of the program, to Mariah Henley and Kenneth Dalby, before Kitty could realize she'd been swindled.

No one had counted on a cheap background hologram interfering.

"I _suggest_ , Miss Indiana," Spock said, "that you do a quick background check on this woman, before accepting any check from her."

Kitty folded her arms, her blue eye and rose-topped patch patch menacing. "I think I've got all the background information I need on this woman. She's related to a man who just earlier today tried to rob me."

"Then why did you let me compete in the first place?" Sam argued.

"I was giving you a chance. I'm still giving you a chance. Tell me your bank, and let me give them a ring."

"Like they'd be opened at this hour." Data said, from where he was dabbing his bloodied nose a few tables away.

"Mine will be," Sam said quickly. "Aright, alright. I'll call my bank. But…just…may I use the lady's room first?"

Naomi tried not to visibly wince. She knew what her mother had in mind; contact someone like Golwat back on Voyager, and have them pretend to be her banker on the phone. But Kitty was seeing clean through the deception. Even brainwashed with a new identity, Kathryn Janeway was no fool. A bit rash perhaps, maybe a little unstable, but never gullible.

Kitty turned away from Samantha, as if she thought Sam's lie was so pathetic it wasn't even worth the time it would take to call her out on it. "Anyone for fifty-thousand, other than Mr. Lanksy? Going once, going twice…"

Barclay pulled himself up on one of the tables, his face a bloody pulp, and began to raise his hand weakly. McCoy quickly punched him in the face, sending him back down to the floor.

" _Sold_!" Kitty bellowed.

Spock dipped his hat cordially, and left to make the transaction.

"And now," Kitty swept her hand across the room, "A round for everyone in the café, for being such good sports."

A surprising number of people were still in the club, despite the brawl, and the café erupted into cheers. Samantha, Naomi and Icheb just stood silently.

Samantha's hand crept to the com badge hidden behind the orange Ktarian flower pinned to her suit.

* * *

In Engineering, Golwat's blue hands gripped the console, as she scanned the panels on the screen. Xiong was still watching over her shoulder. By the looks of things, the auction was over, and Ensign Wildman had lost. Golwat was ready to alert the Doctor, but Wildman got there first.

" _Wildman to all hands; we lost the auction_."

"Acknowledged," Golwat said.

Golwat glanced at the young human next to her. Xiong was looking at the carnage in the other panels: Captain Ransom sprawled on the steps of the courthouse, filled with bullet holes; the dead Kazon in the barber shop; Harry Kim speaking nervously to a holographic policeman, over the knifed body of "Sal." At the department store, a small crowd was gathering around the dead Kazon in the shattered revolving door, and the one run over in the street. The Victorian family from Janeway's Gothic holonovel slowed to a stop as they approached the scene. The son wrinkled his nose, and exclaimed, "Bloody hell!"

Xiong seemed to silently agree with the character.

"They're just holograms," Golwat reminded Xiong.

When Xiong spoke, Golwat realized the girl's eyes were wide not with terror, but excitement. "Holograms with _personality subroutines!_ "

She left the panel and rushed to a console on the other side of the room.

* * *

Sam was fuming visibly. Naomi feared her mother might actually do something rash. She heard her mom mutter to herself, "Seska's game, Seska's rules…what would Seska do?"

Naomi and Icheb exchanged a glance.

Icheb asked timidly, "Are you asking us, or—?"

" _Golwat to all hands_ ," the Bolian woman's voice echoed from the trio's hidden com badges. " _We've finally figured out how Seska brainwashed the crew, and we also think we've found a way to counter it. Long story short, she's using a complex interface, and we think we can send out a frequency to break it. Bring the senior staff back to reality_."

The Doctor replied over the line, " _How_?"

A new voice came on. A young engineer, with a mild Asian accent. " _Okay, this is hard to explain if you're not an engineer. But basically, the personality subroutines that you use for holograms in the holodeck operate on a specific code, or program, whatever you want to call it, and it's very similar to the one Seska used for her interface to brainwash the crew_."

Naomi looked around the café, to ensure that no one was overhearing them. Everyone was distracted with drinks and conversation. Characters who'd been brawling minutes before were now laughing and chumming like old pals. Kirk and Barclay seemed to have made up, and were swapping jokes over drinks. T'Pol was at the bar, flirting with Data. Picard and Sisko were laughing together, until Sisko said offhandedly, "Happy Valentine's Day," to which Picard grudgingly emptied his glass of wine on Sisko's face. Luckily, Sisko just let it drop.

The girl in engineering continued: " _If we want to override Seska's interface, we need to use that program. We didn't have the chance before because—well first of all, we hadn't figured any of this out yet—but also, because this whole holo-program was using all those programs. It would take months to design a new one from scratch. But, now that a ton of Seska's holograms are 'dead'…_ "

" _Those codes aren't in use!_ " the Doctor finished. " _So you can recycle them, and re-work them into an interface that will free the senior staff!_ "

" _Bingo!_ "

Sam shook her head, wide-eyed. "Well what are you waiting for?"

Golwat answered, " _More deaths._ "

The Doctor's voice lowered an octave. " _Come again_?"

" _This interface will take a lot of power._ " Golwat explained. " _The codes from the nine or ten people you killed won't be enough._ "

Xiong added, " _If you could off maybe thirty more holograms, that would about do it_."

The Doctor sounded mortified. " _Thirty?_ "

" _Hey_ ," Lt. Ayala's voice. " _How many people are in Captain Janeway's café?_ "

* * *

Minutes later, Naomi and her mother stood in the parking lot outside the Queen's Cabin. Kitty Indiana soon came running out the front doors, holding her long red skirt like a noblewoman fleeing an overthrown castle. A second later, Spock came jogging out from the other side of the building, with the silver bird statue tucked under his shoulder. Finally, Naomi saw Icheb climb out a low window, and tear across the lot to rejoin her and her mother. His fedora tumbled off onto the parking lot, but he didn't stop for it.

Panting, the former drone hit the com badge under his disheveled suit. "Icheb to all hands. Captain Janeway and the Bird are out of the building. I told 'Kitty Indiana' that Mayhew had been shot on the dock, and then told 'Meyer Lanksy' that the police would soon be arriving to investigate the auction. Approximately forty individuals are inside the café, holograms all. The building will self destruct momentarily."

"And," Sam Wildman said timidly, "How exactly did you manage that, Icheb?"

Icheb's panting subsided. "Recently, Seven of Nine attempted to instruct me on cooking. We were on the holodeck, using a traditional Brunali stove, from my home world. I attempted to combine a drink from my planet with the main course, thinking I might create a sort of soup. It was then that I was educated on the effects of mixing Brunali cider with fire."

* * *

Only those watching the program from Engineering got the last inside view of Kitty Indiana's club, and its holographic inhabitants. McCoy was ranting angrily at Picard about something, while Sisko sipped a drink, watching their argument with mild interest. T'Pol and Data were leaning against the bar, sharing a cigarette. Kirk was too busy playing a drinking game with Sandrine and a handful of other characters to notice his Vulcan girlfriend cheating on him. Barclay was behind the bar counter, helping himself to some drinks, while the bartender Lonzak stared dumbfounded.

The fireball billowed out from the café's kitchen, and none of the characters seemed to notice it. They continued playing their parts obliviously, until they were erased in an orange blaze.

* * *

The explosion knocked Naomi straight to the ground. When she pushed herself up, the fireball was still clearing. Not only had the Queen's Cabin been obliterated, but several neighboring buildings were now missing chunks, with enflamed edges. A water pipe had apparently burst as well, as small fountains were spraying around various sections of the street. Naomi could feel the spray of at least one of them wetting the tips of her cranial horns.

Samantha had braced herself against a parked car, but still looked like she'd suffered the shock wave. Icheb remained standing. His hair was standing too. And his face was covered in soot. Naomi looked down and saw that her nice historical dress now had a coating of ash, and her mother was covered in soot as well. Naomi wondered if this was a realistic effect of standing close to this type of explosion, or simply a dramatic effect Tom Paris had written into his program.

Sam helped her daughter up, offhandedly asking Icheb, "What the hell have Seven and Neelix been _teaching_ you two?"

"Well then."

Heads turned to see Spock strolling between the parked cars, staring ahead at Sam Wildman accusingly. The Silver Bird was still tucked under his arm. Sam's eyes went straight to the Bird. Spock noticed.

"So," the Vulcan stopped before the three of them. "I out-bid you on the Bird. Then you," he looked at Icheb, "Feed me some crack-pot story of the fuzz coming down on us." The twentieth century slang clashed oddly with Spock's Vulcan monotone. "And now…" he turned to glance at the shouldering remains of Kitty's café.

"Mr. Lanky…or…whatever your name is," Samantha's voice suddenly took on a saddened edge, "You have to believe me, I didn't know anything about this."

The Vulcan turned back to stare at her. Naomi and Icheb were staring too.

Sam shook her head, contorting her face like a damsel in a cheesy holo-vid. "Alright, I was sent to steal the statue from you. That I'll admit. But no one told me anything about…this." She glanced back at the crater that had once been Kitty's café, and wiped an invisible tear from her eye. "I don't, I don't care anymore. I don't want the Bird, or the money. What's money, anyway. All it does is turn people, men, into brawling…freakasaurous… _narcs_!"

Sam's knowledge of twentieth-century slang was limited, and Naomi was pretty sure something was wrong with the words her mother had just chosen. But Sam was deep into character now, and she had Spock's full attention.

"I was _finished_ with men. All of them, childish, boorish pigs, trying to impress me with 'poetry' and show off how 'emotional' and 'sensitive' they are…I never thought I'd find someone so….honest, and," her fingers came up to brush Spock's ear, causing the Vulcan to raise one eyebrow with interest. "…and logical."

"Madame," Spock's eyes drifted to Naomi. "You are married, are you not?"

"Somehow," Sam hooked her arm around the Vulcan's neck. "I get the feeling, if my husband ever does find out about this, he'll just laugh."

Then she pulled him into a hard kiss. Up until now, Naomi's eyes had gradually growing wider with shock and revulsion. Icheb, meanwhile, looked as if he were watching a badly-acted soap opera.

Despite Spock's Vulcan nature—and attempts to bury his human one—he soon melted into the kiss, closing his eyes, and bringing his free hand up to cup Samantha's hair. Sam's eyes carefully crept opened, and met Naomi's. She sent Naomi an urgent expression, contorting her eyebrows, and gave her head a tiny jerk towards the statue under Spock's arm. Naomi understood. Spock, of course, did not, and simply took Sam's motion for enthused smooching, which he was glad to match. Naomi's mother looked a tad startled when the Vulcan began kissing her more passionately.

Naomi grabbed the statue from under Spock's arm. The Vulcan didn't seem to notice. Naomi was momentarily frozen, and stared from her mother to Icheb. Icheb seized her arm, pulling Naomi along, and then they were both running, tearing down the parking lot, towards the street.


	20. Lights Out

Naomi and Icheb ducked into an alley just across the street from the smoldering remains of the Queen's Cabin. Naomi clutched the silver statuette to her chest, panting, while Icheb tapped his hidden com badge.

"Icheb to all hands: we have the Bird, and we require direction to the holodeck door."

" _It's on the other side of the holodeck_ ," Golwat answered regretfully. " _Or the other side of town, as far as you're concerned_."

Still panting, Icheb asked Golwat, "Is anyone else within reach of us?"

"You mean anyone who knows what's really going on? Unfortunately no."

"How big _is_ the holodeck?" Naomi exclaimed.

" _With all the twists and turns programmed into this city, pretty damn big. Stay calm. Are there any land-crafts nearby_?"

"You mean cars?" Naomi glanced around the corner of the alley. "I think I see a cab parked down the street."

The pair hurried out of the alley, Naomi doing her best to keep the statue out of view. Naomi slowed to a stop in front of the movie theater, her eyes wandering the posters. Icheb noticed she'd fallen behind, and ran back to urge her along.

"Naomi, what is it?"

He followed her gaze to the posters. At first glance they looked like authentic posters from the Golden Age of cinema, but Icheb quickly realized that they were all based on the Voyager crew's holonovels. "Captain Proton" and "Saint Claire" were easily recognizable, even with Silver Screen actors painted into the roles. Flotter and Treevis grinned stupidly in an antique, two-dimensional cartooning style.

"This is getting surreal," Naomi muttered.

"Agreed," Icheb said. "Come on."

They made a beeline for the taxi, and stopped dead when they came close enough to see Captain Braxton's corpse in the front seat, a trail of dried blood running from one eye.

"Okay," Naomi said irritably. "Who's gonna drive? You guys killed the cab driver!"

Over the comm. link, Crewman Harren muttered, " _Sorry._ "

"This is a primitive vehicle." Icheb opened the car's front door. "It should not be difficult to operate." He eyed Braxton's body, pondering what to do with it. Finally, utilizing his Borg strength, the boy hefted up the dead hologram and carried it like a Christmas tree to a bench on the sidewalk. He propped Braxton in a position that made it look like he was asleep. He then retrieved Braxton's black, purple-banded hat, and placed it on the corpse's head, pulling the brim over the eyes to give the impression that he was asleep.

"That'll be a nasty shock for the next person who decides to sit on that bench," Naomi said, as she and Icheb climbed into the car.

Icheb froze when he realized just how many different buttons and controls were in front of him. "I'm unfamiliar with this vessel's design."

"Well it's a car. You just, you know," Naomi reached over Icheb and moved the steering wheel back and forth a few times. Nothing happened. "Um," she looked around the various knobs and buttons. Her eyes landed on a small box sitting in front of the windshield, and she turned a large knob. Apparently, this was the radio.

"— _murders committed by confirmed Nazi sympathizer well known to law enforcement personnel as 'Seraphine.' This woman is also responsible for the destruction of the popular club the Queen's Cabin, which has resulted in burst pipelines and flooding all across the city_ …"

Naomi wrinkled her nose at the radio. "Who's trying to do a New York accent and failing?"

"Crewman Ashmore from the sound of it," Icheb turned off the radio. "Icheb to all hands: I require…instructions."

"Is there a manual?" Naomi turned around in her seat, looking around the back of the car. Nothing back there, but an empty malt cup and a pile of ragged clothes covering the back seat. She turned back around.

" _Icheb_ ," Ayala replied over the comm. " _I'm driving a car on the other side of town. I'll meet you halfway at the Bridge. Till then I'll direct you_."

Icheb agreed.

" _Alright. There should be a key somewhere. It might already be in the ignition_."

Naomi bit her lip and hugged the statue, while Ayala talked Icheb through starting up the car. She looked out the window, trying to find her mother, wondering if she was still smooching Commander Spock. That was an image Naomi would never be able to erase from her brain.

She gasped as the car suddenly took off, many miles over the speed limit. One traffic sign was plowed clean over, and another left wobbling in its place like a spring, before Icheb finally got them going in the right direction at the right speed.

She waited for a gap in Ayala's instructions to ask, "When are the senior officers going to get their memories back?"

The Doctor answered, " _After the Bird is out of the holodeck. None of the senior officers are wearing their com badges, so if they regain their memories, we won't be able to warn them about the virus. I'm afraid as soon as they realize they're on the holodeck, they'll begin trying to shut the program down_."

"Well—" A bump on the road interrupted Naomi. "—I mean, would they even be able to end the program, even if they tried? We were trying for who knows how long, weren't…?" She trailed off, eying something in the mirror that hung over the windshield.

The pile of rags in the back seat was moving.

" _It's a risk I'd rather not take_ ," the Doctor said.

"But if they were themselves," Icheb argued, eyes still on the road, "They would behave infinitely more rationally. With the exception, perhaps, of Commander Tuvok…"

As if on cue, Tuvok rose to sitting position in the back seat; what Naomi had taken for a lump of rags had been his worn suit and coat. Her mouth half-opened, Naomi whirled around, facing the Vulcan. It took a few moments for Icheb to notice Tuvok in the back seat, but after a double-take he froze, letting the car drift out of alignment. Then quickly caught himself, the car screeching, as he brought it back into the correct lane. Passing cars honked angrily.

Naomi swallowed. "Tuvok, I mean…Icheb, what's his name in this program?"

Without altering his usual Vulcan expression, Tuvok reached out with one hand and seized the head of the bird statue. Naomi tightened her grip on the Bird, but Tuvok didn't seem to care.

"My mind to your mind…"

"Wha—? You can't mind-meld a—no, Tuvok!" Naomi tugged at the statue, beginning to panic. "Bad Vulcan!"

* * *

In Engineering, Golwat hit her consol with her blue hand. "Come on! No!" She hit her com badge. "Golwat to the Doctor, we're losing power over here. The monitor's going in and out. I can't keep perfect track of what the senior staff is up to anymore."

" _Acknowledged_."

On the screen, the various panels flickered in and out of focus. Naomi and Icheb's panel was jumping on and off like a broken holo-vid, which was why Golwat hadn't been able to foresee Tuvok sneaking into their car. The Captain's panel was just as bad. And Seska's was completely off.

* * *

Icheb's car screeched again as a figure suddenly ran into the road and leaped up, deliberately crashing into the front windshield, and rolled down the car's hood, onto the street.

It was Neelix.

Icheb had just hit Neelix with his car.

Fortunately, the Talaxian seemed unharmed. Neelix scrambled up and threw the back door opened.

"Let go of that bomb!" he shouted at both Naomi and Tuvok, and took a hold of the Bird.

Naomi refused to release her hold. "Wait Neelix—I mean Ned—we have to get the bomb to the, um, Scotland Yard!"

"You're a child, you shouldn't be handling a bomb! I know how to defuse this thing, I did it in the army!"

"Our minds are one. Our thoughts are one."

"Icheb," Naomi grunted, tugging at the statue, "Help!"

"Icheb to Engineering! Activate the interface immediately!"

" _The Doctor said_ —"

" _What's going on_?" the Doctor demanded.

"Neelix is trying to 'protect' us from the 'bomb.'" Icheb reported. "And Tuvok is attempting a mind-meld with it. I don't know that breaking the interface with improve the Commander's condition, but I'm sure it can't hurt."

" _Doctor_?" Golwat said nervously.

" _Do it!_ "

Neelix continued struggling another second, then stopped, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Slowly, he released his hold on the statue. "…Tuvok?"

Without realizing it, Naomi loosened her grip as well, and poor Tuvok was sent crashing into the back windshield.

* * *

Janeway was halfway to the beach, to see if her fiancé had truly been shot on the dock, when a sharp pain in the back of her head made her stop dead.

And then everything suddenly flew back to her.

She remained in the middle of the street, clutching her brown fur coat, looked sharply around her surroundings. Was this a dream? Where the hell was she? She'd been looking for something….Mayhew, her fiancé Mayhew….Her fiancé wasn't named Mayhew. His name was Mark. And he wasn't her fiancé anymore. Yes, it had clearly been a dream….

But what was she doing here, in the middle of twentieth-century Earth?

And why was she wearing a velvet eye-patch?

Blinking in confusion, Janeway hesitantly lifted the patch, felt around the eye underneath. The eyeball felt and worked perfectly fine. She yanked the patch off and stared at it, in her hand. It was a dark red velvet, decorated with a tiny fabric rose. She remembered replicating about half a dozen eye-patches, to match each of her costumes for Tom's new film noir program…

"Computer, freeze program."

" _Unable to comply_."

Well that confirmed it.

She searched for the com badge she'd originally pinned to the inside of her costume. Everyone brought their com badge to the holodeck, specifically for emergencies like this one. Not surprisingly, someone or something had removed her badge.

Knowing it was probably futile, Janeway tried, "Computer end program."

" _Unable to comply_."

Janeway closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Again. _Again_.

"Why do we even _have_ this god damn holodeck?" she muttered, as she turned on her heel and marched towards the nearest restaurant.

Janeway was too distracted to care that the portly waiter who greeted her was Seamus from the "Fair Haven" program. Drying a mug, he said merrily, "Good afternoon, ma'am!"

Without returning his smile, Janeway ordered, "Coffee. Black."

The man's smile vanished.

Janeway placed one hand on the counter and sighed heavily. " _Please_."

* * *

Harry watched the policemen investigating the murder scene around the subway entrance, his eyes lingering on the sheet-covered corpse of his old girlfriend. He barely heard the voice of the police officer rambling off questions for him. A second ago his head had hurt, and now something was coming into focus.

The holodeck. He was on the holodeck.

This was that "film noir" program he and Tom had been working on. Harry struggled to remember what he'd just been doing. _Sal, the murder, the Silver Bird…._

"Son?" the police officer said. "You still with us?"

Harry turned to face the holographic policeman, and realized he was looking at the late Lt. Carey. One of the cops examining Sal's body looked like the captain's boyfriend from that "Fair Haven" program. Two women gawking at the murder scene had reason for covering their ears with those long hats; they were the female elf leads from "Lord of the Rings." In the crowd of onlookers, all inconspicuously dressed in period-appropriate clothing for the 1940s, Harry picked out Sherlock Holmes, Leonardo da Vinci, Tiny Tim and Mr. Scrooge. The officer with Carey's face stared at Harry, clearly thinking he was crackers.

"W-what?" Harry stammered, as much to the universe as the policeman questioning him.

A whiskey bottle suddenly crashed over the cop's head, and he collapsed to the ground unconscious. Tom stood behind him, in a worn looking suit, and a uniquely decorated hat. Harry remembered suggesting to Tom, putting that Ace card in the brim.

"How you doin' Harry?" Tom nodded.

"What the hell are _you_ doing?" Harry exclaimed.

"I think I have a clue," Tom replied. He looked over Harry's shoulder, at the police officers and pedestrians staring at them. They all seemed too stunned by what Tom had just done to react right away. "It's okay," Tom jerked his head to the unconscious cop on the ground. "He's not real. Neither are any of you. C'mon Harry."

As Harry followed Tom down the street, he heard one of the other cops say slowly, "Hey….!"

"Tom, what—"

"Shh!" Tom pulled Harry into a dirty alley, and quickly checked around the corner. "Ten seconds ago I was a bootlegger named Tommy Chicago, and now all of a sudden I'm Tom Paris again. The last time I switched identities that fast was the Quarra incident."

"Oh god," Harry's eyes suddenly widened at a grizzly sight on the ground next to them.

"It's okay Harry. We get our memories tampered with so often, it should be no big deal by now—"

Harry elbowed Tom, drawing his attention to the body on the ground. They were looking at a little gray-haired hobo, seemingly with his neck snapped.

"Hey," Tom knelt next to the body. "That looks like Crewman Suder."

"But he's already dead," Harry said, thinking out loud. "He died years ago."

"He's a hologram," Tom confirmed, touching the corpse's arm.

"How do you know? He could be an alien in disguise, or—"

"I work with holograms all the time Harry. I work with one in Sickbay. I know the difference."

Harry made a face. "Did you know the difference a few weeks ago, when the Doc pretended to be B'Elanna and kissed you?"

Tom shot up suddenly. "B'Elanna!"

Harry's mouth opened in a silent gasp. "Seska has her! No," he shook his head. "Not the real Seska, just a hologram of her."

Tom's eyes were widening, as the realization came over him.

"Who's behind all this?" Harry wondered aloud.

"Bet I know," Tom grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him out of the alley.

* * *

There was what felt like a bee sting in the back of her brain, and then B'Elanna's memory came back instantly, like being brought out of a light dream by her morning alarm.

She knew exactly where she was. She was on the holodeck, in a holographic basement. A flooding holographic basement. According to the radio that "Seraphine" had turned on to keep "Billie" occupied, the Queen's Cabin had been bombed, and as a result, water pipelines all over the city were bursting. The water in this basement was already at B'Elanna's bound ankles. Seska was working at that wall panel, looking distressed. She was dressed like a femme fatale from one of Tom's ridiculous noir programs. Seeing that Bajoran disguise again, the mask B'Elanna had once called her "best friend," made her sick.

For a moment B'Elanna struggled futilely in her chair, then shot the false Bajoran a glare. "Seska!"

Seska froze, and turned her head sharply to face her.

B'Elanna looked around the basement, as the water continued to rise around her.

"B'Elanna," Seska said carefully. "What do you remember?"

B'Elanna stared at Seska, her face and voice hard. " _Everything_. I remember _everything_."

* * *

When Seven and Chakotay regained their memories, they were already out of the car, and heading up the front walkway of the old mansion Seska had ordered Chakotay to meet her at. The sky was darkening, as the sun set. They froze inches from the door, and looked at each other.

"Commander," Seven said.

"Seven."

They spent a moment taking in the sight of each other, and themselves. Seven, with her hair down, wearing her earth-colored suit-dress. Chakotay in that gray suit, and those gray streaks he'd temporarily put in his sideburns in preparation of his character for Tom's game. How long had they been wandering around looking like this? If Seven's memory was accurate, it had been a long time indeed.

Seven felt as if she'd been caught with her Chakotay hologram again, but it was worse, because this time she'd been playing with the real Chakotay. For some reason, the fact that she'd allowed her fellow shipmates to be shot at, beaten, and lied to was nothing next to the horror of realizing she'd tickled her commanding officer. She could feel herself going sick with shame.

Chakotay placed a hand on his hip. "You have any idea what's going on?"

Seven initially took it as an accusation. "No," she replied.

Chakotay glanced around the darkening building. "Well it's obvious we're on the holodeck."

He felt his suit for his com badge, and Seven did the same. They both found nothing.

"Computer," Chakotay tried, "End program."

" _Unable to comply_."

"Well it was worth a shot," he sighed.

"Lt. Torres and her child are still in danger," Seven realized.

Chakotay began to open the building's door, but Seven stopped him. "There are two routes to that basement. If we split up, one of us can attack Seska from behind."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"In preparation for this activity I accessed the layout of this program, to familiarize myself with the setting."

"Seven that's cheating!"

"Clarify."

"Never mind. Alright, what are our options?"

* * *

"This was you." B'Elanna said icily. "You're not just a malfunction. It's really you. Seska's hologram. Just like when you took over Tuvok's program four years ago."

The water continued to rise, now well above both women's ankles.

"You _are_ good," Seska finally admitted.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I think you already asked me that." Seska began to turn back to the panel, water sloshing around her stockinged legs.

"I asked Seraphine. I'm interested in Seska's answer. You're dead, you'll never get home! What are you hoping to accomplish by killing us all? By killing my baby?"

Seska glared at her over her shoulder. "You don't deserve that baby."

B'Elanna realized that by now, nothing the insane Cardassian said should shock her. Yet every time Seska returned, she still managed to surprise. " _Excuse_ me?"

Seska seemed to think it was so obvious that it was absurd to waste time explaining it. "Back on Cardassia—well, the city-state _I_ come from—people don't just breed like animals. The privilege to continue your family line has to be earned. I was earning it during the war, when I was spying on your cell. I stayed awake nights, thinking about who the father might be, what I'd name the child."

" _That's_ why you were so desperate to get back home?!" B'Elanna exclaimed breathlessly. "You were afraid of your biological clock ticking?"

"Well that, and I wanted to see my family and home planet again sometime in the next seventy-five years. And I didn't exactly love the idea of being alone on a starship surrounded by angry Maquis."

" _Tom_ was on a starship surrounded by angry Maquis! We made a place for him, for me, for Seven of Nine! If you'd just given us a chance, given yourself a chance—"

"A chance to do what, play Starfleet officer while every opportunity to get us home was blown on Starfleet principals?"

B'Elanna shook her head. "You're hopeless."

Seska eyed up B'Elanna. "My turn to ask a question."

"As if you haven't done enough interrogating."

"Why didn't my betrayal, my turning out to be a Cardassian, why didn't that bother you?"

"It's been bothering me for a long time, Seska."

"Not enough for that Klingon temper of yours to get loose."

"That Klingon temper was turned off for most of our second year out here. When that Vidiian scientist split me in half, my Klingon..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Well let's just say I wasn't myself for a while after that. Count yourself lucky I wasn't me that year, or it would've been nasty for you."

"But even a full-blooded human would've at least been a little sad. I didn't find anything in the logs about you showing signs of depression like you did when you learned about how we creamed the Maquis."

B'Elanna winced, and took a moment to respond. "Guess I was just so used to being betrayed all my life, your being a Cardassian didn't faze me." She watched Seska curiously. "I don't think you really answered my question. Why are you doing all this? Alright, you hate us, you're angry we ruined your life, you want us all dead. Why not just rig the ship to explode? Why bother with this holographic _bak-tag_?"

Seska's lip curled. "I wanted to expose you all. Without your precious Starfleet principals to keep you in order, without your cute little 'journey' to keep you all one tight-knit family. I wanted you all to see how flimsy those 'morals' and experiences and opinions you think define you are. I wanted to show you that if your Tom wasn't stuck out here on this ship, he'd leave you before your little hybrid was even born."

For a moment, B'Elanna grew sick inside, as the idea sank in. But as she turned it over in her mind, she realized the flaw in Seska's lie.

"Then why did you need to cook up that subplot about Tom being wanted by the law? Tommy Chicago left Billie Torres because he was afraid of getting her and their baby into trouble. It killed him to do it." B'Elanna felt a taunting smile creep onto her own lips. "I remember, it took a lot of convincing from all his friends, for Chakotay just to face the fact that baby you tried forcing on him even existed."

Seska's fists tightened.

"Are you doing anything about your son, Seska?" B'Elanna asked, honestly curious. "Did you even give him a name? He's out there, with his Kazon father. He's still your son. The only Cardassian in the Delta Quadrant. We might be able to help you reach—"

"You ruin my life," Seska whispered, "And now you think you'll make up for it by reminding me about the most shameful mistake?"

B'Elanna's mouth fell opened. "And you think _I'm_ the one who doesn't deserve my child?"

Seska fumed at her.

B'Elanna scoffed. "I guess the kid's lucky. He can grow up thinking his mother was a saint. He doesn't have to know what you really—"

Seska put one heeled foot on the edge of B'Elanna's chair, and kicked. B'Elanna tumbled onto her back with a splash. She struggled against the ropes to free herself from the chair, as the water flowed over her face.

* * *

"It's a virus!" Naomi shouted, pointing at the statuette in Tuvok's hands. "I don't have time to explain. But we have to get it out of the holodeck. Before doing anything to try and shut off the program!"

Icheb added, "If the statue is on the holodeck when the program ends, it will dissolve into the ship, and shut down all vital systems."

Neelix ducked out of the car's back door, and threw opened Icheb's. "I'll drive. Get in the back!"

Naomi and Icheb both glanced back at Tuvok, who seemed to believe he was having success mind-melding the statue.

"Let him keep it," Neelix ordered. "We just need to get the Bird out of the holodeck; doesn't matter if there's a Vulcan attached to it, does it?"

"I guess not," Naomi said, as the car started up again.

* * *

Chakotay had a dozen ideas buzzing around his mind for what he'd say when they finally found Seska's hologram, and all of them vanished from his memory as soon as he came down the stairs and saw the Cardassian standing in the flooded basement, with one foot on the edge of the seat of an overturned chair. B'Elanna was tied to the chair, struggling frantically, with her entire head under the water, her pregnant stomach half submerged.

Without breathing or blinking, Chakotay drew his gun and shot Seska in the side. The Cardassian gasped and grabbed the wound. The look she shot him told Chakotay that she knew, as of a minutes ago, that this was likely to happen. The Kazon henchmen she'd planned to greet Chakotay at this building were now dead, thanks to four of Chakotay's old Maquis soldiers. The fact that she'd waste time trying to slowly drown her prisoner rather than trying to flee the building could only be explained by the fact that she was Seska.

A second gunshot rang out, and Seska convulsed, now with a hole in her back. Seven stepped into the basement from the secret passage she'd used, and took aim at Seska's head. But Chakotay waved his hand, signaling for her to hold her fire. The former drone obeyed.

Chakotay ran to B'Elanna and yanked her chair back up. Chakotay began to untie her hands, as she gasped and coughed, while Seven kept her gun trained on Seska. The Cardassian was still alive, dragging herself through the shallow water, to grip a basement pole. She left a cloudy trail of red water behind her.

Seska looked weakly from Chakotay to Seven. "You're both out of bullets."

Both checked their guns, and realized she was right. Chakotay tossed his useless pistol into the water, and lunged at Seska, grabbing her jaw with one hand and pinning her against the pillar.

"Seven," he ordered, "Finish untying B'Elanna."

He glanced over his shoulder to see that Seven was obeying, more out of instinct than anything. B'Elanna stepped out of the chair, hugging herself, and both women stood next to each other in the water, watching Chakotay and Seska. He turned back to the Cardassian. "What are you?" he demanded.

B'Elanna answered for him. "It's Seska's hologram, Chakotay. The one from Tuvok's mutiny program. This is all her doing."

Seska offered Chakotay a small one-shouldered shrug and a playful grin.

Flatly he demanded, "Why."

B'Elanna shook her head. "You won't get a straight answer from her Chako—"

"Be quiet!" he barked.

Both B'Elanna and Seven were startled by Chakotay's tone. He rarely showed anger of any sort, and when he did, it was frightening. At least to those who knew him.

Seska whispered, "I always loved you best when you were angry. It's so exci—"

Chakotay slammed her against the pillar. "You did _not_ do all this to get back at _me_!"

"Don't flatter yourself! I did it to get back at all of you. At Captain Janeway for keeping us stuck out here. At you for being such a holier-than-thou sh'throt." No one understood the Cardassian insult, but it was probably severe. "Torres, for dishing out her loyalty to whatever imbecile asked for it." She glared at Seven. "That drone for…"

Chakotay finished for her. "For helping me move on from you."

Seven's expression changed, her eyes still locked on Chakotay. This was news to her.

"B'Elanna's right," Chakotay admitted. "I probably won't get a straight answer, if I ask why getting revenge through these ridiculous holo-programs or allying with the Kazon or impregnating yourself with my DNA made any sense to you. But maybe you can answer one question for me."

Weakly, Seska still managed a challenging tone. "Maybe I can."

"Do you ever feel remorse?"

She stared at him. "For…?"

Chakotay glanced back at B'Elanna. "When you tried to drown a heavily pregnant woman, just now. A woman you once called your 'best friend.'" When Seska didn't respond, he added to the list, his voice becoming increasingly louder and harder. "Trying to murder two hundred innocent people." Seska scoffed. "Stranding us all on that desolate planet, knowing Ensign Wildman had a baby at the time. Watching the Kazon beat me. Violating my body, trying to force that baby on me. The civilians the Cardassians killed on those colonies. What you did to the Bajorans. Anything?"

Seska continued to stare at him with that shit-eating grin. "What difference would it make? You wouldn't kill me Chakotay, not like this. Not unarmed and bleeding."

Chakotay realized that the water surrounding him and Seska was almost completely red.

"Bet you wish I was on my feet, attacking B'Elanna or your drone. Then you'd have a hero's excuse. But you're too soft to put me out of your misery now."

Chakotay's blood was rushing at a speed he rarely felt, even during battles. He was fairly good at remaining calm in the face of physical danger. This was a kind of panicked rage that he rarely recalled feeling over the last seven years. Seska had brought it out in him a few times. And the incident with Chaotic Space, with his "crazy gene." Whatever Seska had done to his mind this time, it might still be having some effect on him, because he felt like doing something "crazy" right now. Very crazy.

"You're right," he said softly. "I wouldn't kill someone in cold blood. Not even Seska."

The Cardassian blinked slowly, in an expression of relief that might've been sincere. Chakotay gently moved his hand away from her throat, to the back of her neck.

"But you're not Seska, are you."

Her smile slowly vanished.

"You're just a hologram of Seska."

With his hand still on the back of her neck, he shoved Seska's hologram face-first into the water, and held her there. Seven and B'Elanna watched the Cardassian kick and splash, unmoved. Chakotay remained kneeling over her like a statue, his black eyes hard and unblinking. None of them could say how long they waited for the splashing to stop. It might have been a few seconds, or several minutes. Chakotay continued to hold her down many moments after the bubbles stopped.

And then Seska vanished.

The water vanished, and the basement vanished.

* * *

Neelix, Naomi, Icheb, and Tuvok stood at the holodeck door, along with Ayala and a handful of other "rescue team" members. The door panel was located on the outside wall of an opera house, behind the now ripped-away poster for a stage play called "Crime Doesn't Pay." Crewman Jor and Tabor were working furiously to manually open the door, while Neelix did all he could to convince Tuvok to give him the Bird.

"Got it!" Jor finally exclaimed, as the door hissed opened.

It was a surreal view, seeing Voyager's hallway through a giant doorway in the middle of a brick wall in 1940s San Francisco. Mariah Henley and Kenneth Dalby shot up from where they'd been sitting on the floor. Dalby readied the Doctor's mobile emitter.

Naomi ripped the statuette from Tuvok's grasp before the Vulcan could react, and tossed it like a football towards the holodeck door. Dalby and Henley both reached out to catch it.

The Bird vanished a second before it reached their hands.

The movie theater vanished.

The city vanished.

And then Naomi found herself on a biobed, in Sickbay.

* * *

Captain Janeway didn't know if the coffee in this café was real or holographic, and she didn't care. She blew across the top of the mug, feeling the sweet heat touch her cheeks, smelling the Columbian blend, and raised it to her lips, only for her coffee and the entire café to vanish right before she took her first sip.

* * *

Naomi looked around Sickbay.

Everyone was waking up. Her mother, Icheb, Lt. Ayala, the entire rescue team was sitting up and climbing out of their beds, all back in their regular Starfleet uniforms. The Doctor materialized in the middle of Sickbay, looking startled.

"What happened?" the hologram demanded.

Mar Javin and Annalie Blackhorse, the two crewmen who'd been put in charge of Sickbay during the rescue mission, conveyed their bafflement.

"The program ended," Icheb said darkly. "With the Bird still inside."

* * *

The senior officers found themselves looking at the gridded metallic walls of the holodeck. Chakotay glanced down at his hands in midair, still holding an invisible Cardassian, and slowly rose to his feet. After the initial shock, the heartfelt greetings came next. Tom and B'Elanna ran into each other's arms. Janeway clopped in her high heels over to the holodeck doors, where Henley and Dalby were still waiting. They didn't share in the senior staff's joy. On the contrary, the two crewmen looked mortified.

Harry Kim suddenly cried out, grabbing his chest. Tom and B'Elanna caught him before he collapsed. When they asked what was wrong, the ensign dared taking his hand away from his chest, and found his fingers dabbed with blood. Janeway rushed over to examine Harry herself.

"You were shot, Harry!" Janeway suddenly remembered.

From the holodeck door, Dalby hit his com badge. "Dalby to Transporter Room 1! Beam—"

" _Transporters are still down_ ," Ensign Brooks reported.

Henley hit her own badge. "Henley to the Doctor! Get down to the holodeck now!"

Neelix looked curiously down at his leg, which had begun to bleed. "Why doesn't this hurt more?"

Tom suggested, "Because you're still high on morphine?" He made a face, as if he would have grabbed his own head if his hands weren't occupied supporting Harry. " _Oh God_ , I have..."

"Hangover from Hell?" Henley asked from the hallway.

Tom shook his head. "More like the hangover from Sto-vo-kor!"

"Don't tell me that was real alcohol you were swigging," Harry said weakly.

Janeway suddenly noticed Chakotay on his knees, holding one arm tightly over his stomach. "Commander!"

She and Seven both knelt over him, while he cringed.

He shook his head, swallowing. "It's not so bad," he said in a strained voice. "Those pain killers must still be doing their job."

Half to herself, Janeway breathed, "Those were real drugs we were all taking in." Her eyes moved up and down Chakotay, before turning back to Harry and Neelix. "And those stitches the Doctor used on you all were holographic."

B'Elanna swore in Klingon.

"Get him onto his back!" Tom shouted.

Seven and Janeway coaxed Chakotay over, onto the floor. The front of his suit was rapidly turning dark red. Seven remained hovering over him, while refusing to actually touch him. She looked at a loss for what to do. Seven of Nine wouldn't console her commanding officer the way Annie Hanson had Charles Liberty.

The entire holodeck suddenly darkened.

" _Warning_ ," Voyager's computer bellowed. " _Life support is off-line…_ "


	21. We'll Always Have Paris

**A/N: I don't own "Star Trek: Voyager."**

* * *

Due to the ship's present condition, it took several minutes to successfully transfer the Doctor's program to the holodeck. Crewman Dalby, of course, still had the Doctor's mobile emitter, and they couldn't waste time having him take the Jeffrey's tubes up to Sickbay to return it. With both the transporters and now turbo lifts down, someone also had to run a medical kit down for the Doctor to use. Ayala, the fastest runner of the group, did the honors, while the others in Sickbay worked to send the Doctor to the holodeck. It took roughly fifteen minutes for Ayala to get there, and given Harry and Chakotay's injuries, these were fifteen minutes they might not have.

When Ayala sprinted into the holodeck with the med kit, the Doctor was among a small crowd kneeling over Harry Kim, who wasn't moving. Chakotay was lying on his back, with Seven kneeling over him. Neelix was holding his bleeding leg, and Tuvok was sitting quietly in a corner. Everyone was looking at Harry, except for Chakotay, who seemed to be in the process of passing out, and Tuvok, who was blinking slowly, as if through a haze.

Ayala's mouth began to open, but the Doctor cut him off.

"Mr. Kim is dead. Treat Commander Chakotay."

Ayala nodded and opened the kit up next to the first officer.

The Doctor reassured Tom and B'Elanna, "He's been brain-dead less than a minute. We still have nineteen left for a Code White resuscitation. Nothing Mr. Kim hasn't been experienced before. Seven, you're the strongest one here. Would you mind helping me transport Mr. Kim to Sickbay, as fast as humanly possible?"

Seven quickly left Chakotay's side. "I'll do it faster," she said, taking the ensign's body from the Doctor and tossing it over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"I'll get Chakotay," Tom said faintly, moving over to the first officer. "Dermal regenerator?" he held out a hand.

Ayala already had it in his hand, and passed it to Tom.

Seven stared at Tom with piercing eyes. "Lieutenant, you are intoxicated!"

"No I'm not Seven, I'm hung over. There's a difference."

"Tom," Captain Janeway quickly swiped the tool from him. "Allow me. No offense, but I think a clear head trumps training in this case." She activated the dermal regenerator and began running it over Chakotay's injuries. "Just a few cuts, nothing too complicated…"

Tom began rummaging through the med kit. "His stomach acids have had fifteen minute to get loose. I need to counter them or he'll die anyway."

Ayala moved his gaze over to Tuvok. "Commander," he said cautiously. "You with us?"

The Vulcan gave Ayala a passing glance. "Lt. Ayala," he said with quiet recognition, and returned to staring into space pensively.

* * *

It was a feeling comparable to déjà vu, times infinity. That was the only way Harry Kim would ever be able to describe it. Being revived from the dead once had been a bizarre enough feeling, the entire universe exploding back into his entire body and mind in a nanosecond. Reliving that exact same experience transcended surreal.

"Welcome back to the word of the living, Harry!" As Tom clapped Harry's shoulder, he could hear the exhausted relieve in his friend's voice.

Harry's face stretched in a strained blink. "Is it over? We shut the program down?"

"The program's been shut off, but it's hardly 'over.'" The Doctor replied. "We've saved you all from the holodeck, but the ship is dead in the water with life support running dry. It's a long story."

"One I'd like to hear right now." Captain Janeway said.

Harry hadn't even heard the doors hiss opened. The Captain was entering Sickbay with the rest of the senior staff, all still in their holodeck costumes, or what was left of them. The captain's eye-patch was gone, and her brown curls fell raggedly over her face. The makeup she, B'Elanna and Seven wore was faded or smeared. Chakotay looked deathly pale, but functional. He'd buttoned up his suit to hide his blood-covered undershirt, but one sleeve was still stained dark red. Tom coaxed him onto a biobed.

Aside from the senior staff, no one was left in Sickbay. Everyone else was working to repair the ship.

"Where to begin," the Doctor replied, in response to the Captain's order. "I suppose I'll start from the beginning. About five days ago, Mr. Paris invited the senior staff to experience his new historical program. The last thing you probably all remember is a sharp pain in your heads."

"I don't even remember that," Harry said.

"The next thing anyone knew, I was back here in Sickbay, and you were all trapped on the holodeck, with false memories and identities. It took tireless effort just to—"

"Doctor," Janeway rubbed her temple. "Summarize. Please."

"It's Seska, Captain," the Doctor said. "It was Seska's hologram, from 'Insurrection Alpha.' Mr. Tuvok's old Maquis mutiny program."

Tuvok, staring at the floor with his arms folded, narrowed his eyes in thought. It was difficult for anyone to say if the security chief was "himself" again; he hadn't said much to anyone since the interface had been broken.

"Seska programmed you all to try to kill each other, over a priceless statuette."

"The Silver Bird." Janeway nodded. "But Doctor, we deleted Seska's hologram. We deleted that entire _program,_ 'Insurrection Alpha."

"If only. Seska evaded death once again by programming her hologram to transfer itself to the next nearest vessel in the event of her character's 'death.' And the unlucky candidate was Mr. Neelix's ship."

Neelix's face fell, in confusion as much as guilt.

Janeway looked stunned, but seemed to realize they didn't have time to go into detail. "And?"

"What we didn't realize until near the end was that that statue—the hologram of that metallic bird—was in fact a three-dimensional computer virus, worked into holographic form."

B'Elanna looked at the Doctor as if he'd just suggested that Toby the Targ was responsible for everything. "A _holographic computer virus_?"

"An invention of Seska's," the Doctor said dryly. "Her plan was that after you'd all killed each other and the program ended, the Bird would dissolve back into Voyager's systems, and the virus would get loose, taking care of the rest of us."

B'Elanna's lips parted in realization. "And when Chakotay killed Seska, that automatically ended the program, just like when Tuvok killed her in 'Insurrection Alpha.'"

Heads instinctively turned to Chakotay, lying on the biobed. The first officer was too weak to offer much of a reaction, but his dark eyes darted to the floor guiltily.

Seven said flatly, "It was an infinitely more humane death than she deserved."

B'Elanna muttered, "No argument there."

"I don't suppose you have any idea how to undo this virus?" the Captain asked nervously.

"I'm afraid not," the Doctor said. "Not at the moment anyway. I have Vorik leading the Engineering team on it."

"I'd better get down there." B'Elanna headed for the door.

"No," the Captain said, stopping B'Elanna in her tracks. "Life support's leaking out as we speak, and there aren't enough EV Suits for the entire crew." She hit her com badge. "All hands: effective immediately, I'm ordering all children and pregnant women into the Delta Flyer. I don't want you to take off in it; just take refuge in its life support system."

B'Elanna almost argued, but wasn't going to put her daughter in danger. She nodded. "Tabor's my algorithmic specialist. If this is a virus I want Vorik to utilize him for solving it."

"He may utilize me as well." Tuvok replied, sounding fully like himself for the first time in days.

Janeway turned to face her old friend. "Tuvok?"

Beneath the 1940s-styled suit and pencil-mustache, one could see that Voyager had its Vulcan security chief back.

"During my 'meld' with the statuette, I became," Tuvok squinted, "acquainted with its structure."

Tom scoffed. "That's ridiculous. You can't mind-meld a hologram!"

Harry shrugged weakly from his bed. "Why not? The Doc got into Seven's brain a few weeks ago."

"The Doctor downloaded his program into my cortical node," Seven reminded Harry. "Unless Commander Tuvok's body contains Borg technology, no mental connection with… _technology_ should be possible."

"Actually," the Doctor remembered. "He does." His eyes jumped to the captain and B'Elanna. "All three of you do. You remember me telling you, after the Unimatrix Zero incident, that it would take time for all of the Borg nanoprobes to be fully flushed from your bodies."

B'Elanna looked dubiously at Tuvok. "You're saying Tuvok was able to mind-meld with a holographic paperweight because there's a microscopic chunk of Borg nanoprobes left in his brain?"

"It's as good an explanation as any," the Doctor said.

"I believe," Tuvok said with conviction, "That I can undo Seska's virus. But it will take time."

Janeway nodded. "Get down to Engineering then. And B'Elanna, get down to the Flyer."

* * *

B'Elanna thought it was like being in a Titanic lifeboat, all women and children. She sat in the pilot's seat of the Delta Flyer, though there would be no need for any piloting, with them sitting parked in Voyager's shuttle bay. Next to her sat Naomi Wildman. Icheb was a ways back, in the seat Harry normally used during away missions. B'Elanna felt like there was still someone they were forgetting. At the sound of footsteps outside the Flyer, she glanced out the window, and remembered who she was thinking of: Amanda Gilmore, the "Borg Baby."

Amanda had been rescued from that damaged cube, along with Icheb and the other Borg children. Shortly afterwards, the orphaned Borg baby had been adopted by Marla Gilmore, former Equinox engineer, and now one of B'Elanna's finest officers. Feeling intense guilt for her crimes aboard the Equinox, and longing for a new start, Marla had been granted the request to be made the child's legal guardian. Marla was now rushing into the shuttle bay with her the toddler in her arms. Amanda, whose species was Tarellian, looked human, save her "double-pointed" ears, and the thin metallic crescent implant framing one eye.

B'Elanna opened the hatch to grant Marla and her daughter entry. Panting, the blonde engineer looked for a place to set the child down.

"Here," Naomi opened her arms, and took Amanda in her lap.

"Thanks," Marla said breathlessly. "B'Elanna," she smiled weakly at the half-Klingon. "You don't know how good it is to have you back!"

"Thanks, Marla," B'Elanna said. "It's good to be back."

Marla let out a sigh. "I wish Noah and I had been able to help more in the program. Noah still feels he owes his life to Commander Chakotay."

B'Elanna nodded, as if she understood. But the truth was, the Equinox incident was hazy in her mind. At least the parts that didn't involve her ex-boyfriend, Max. "Believe me Marla, you've done more than enough."

Marla nodded, hesitantly. "They need me back in Engineering."

"Then you'd better get going. Remember, if anyone has questions on anything I want you to contact me immediately." Marla nodded. "Good luck."

Marla laughed weakly. "Luck can't be that bad now Seska's dead."

B'Elanna began to nod in agreement, then froze.

Next to her, holding Amanda, Naomi looked up curiously. "B'Elanna? What is it?"

Marla stopped in the hatch way.

B'Elanna swore softly in Klingon. She left her seat, and moved to Icheb's consol. "The Doctor said Seska's hologram was programmed to transfer itself out another vessel if she 'died.' And Chakotay killed her."

Marla gripped the edge of the Flyer's doorway, petrified.

After several moments of intense typing, B'Elanna grinned and hissed to herself, " _Got'cha bitch!_ "

Seska materialized in front of the back wall of the Flyer, looking startled to find herself there. She was a Bajoran, but now dressed in the Maquis uniform she'd worn in "Insurrection Alpha," with the intense purple undershirt. She attempted a step forward, and hit a force-field.

"Torres to the Captain: Seska's hologram is in the Delta Flyer. I've got her contained."

* * *

In less than two hours, Tuvok had Voyager's life support back online, and most of its vital systems up and running. The only crucial systems he still couldn't figure out were the shields and the deflector, without which Voyager would be unable to go to warp. The only person who knew how to activate those systems was Seska's hologram. Not willing to risk letting her back into Voyager's database, Janeway ordered the hologram to remain contained in the Delta Flyer, and as soon as Voyager had its life support back, ordered the children to their quarters.

Janeway stood in the center of the parked shuttle, still in the ragged remains of her club-runner costume. Behind the force-field, Seska's glare jumped from the captain, to B'Elanna at the operations console, to the rest of the senior staff watching from outside the opened hatch.

"I'm going to offer you a deal, Seska," Janeway said firmly. "And before I do I want to make two things perfectly clear. We do _not_ need your help to bring the rest of Voyager's systems back online. We've found our way out of far worse situations, and we've been working on this one for less than two hours. We have more than enough time to solve this on our own. And secondly, B'Elanna has the power to decompile your program, permanently, with one command. Our only stake in this deal is convenience; yours is your existence."

"Seska doesn't exist anymore," the hologram spat.

"But her legacy might, through you." Janeway said. "You're no doubt aware, from hacking into our logs, that Voyager is now in contact with the Alpha Quadrant. The Doctor would have contacted them for help immediately if you hadn't blocked off the data-stream. I think that, whatever Seska was, her relatives back home deserve to know what happened to her. In her own words."

Seska's hologram scoffed. "You wouldn't send me, with all of Seska's knowledge of the Federation and your ship, back to the Cardassians!"

"Obviously I'd have B'Elanna delete that information from your memory files. But your personality, your memories on the events you've experienced, they'd live on."

B'Elanna added, "You once told me, you missed your brother's birthday, from being lost out here."

Seska smiled cruelly at B'Elanna. "My brother died when I was three years old. And I now know that my father was killed in the Dominion War, and my mother is in a mental institution." She looked back at Janeway. "No one at home needs me back."

Chakotay asked, "Then why were you so desperate to get back to the Alpha Quadrant?"

"I wanted to be with my own people. Or at least a civilized people."

Chakotay refused to show any reaction to the insult.

Janeway pressed, "And don't you think your people might be interested in hearing the accounts of the only Cardassian ever to travel to the Delta Quadrant? Of the mother of the first Cardassian/Kazon hybrid ever born?"

The hologram shook her head. "The real Seska might give into this. But I'm only programmed for revenge."

At that, everyone realized they'd never know what it was the real Seska had truly wanted.

Janeway continued to look at the hologram for several moments, before finally deciding to give the order. "B'Elanna, de—"

" _Deterium-one-Ctel-three-obsidian-seven-thousand-six-hundred-forty-two_." Seska suddenly said. "In its original Cardassian Basic, obviously." Then making eye contact with Janeway, she added, "I have a cousin on Cardassia Prime. Takal Erak."

Janeway gave Seska a warning stare. "If this is some kind of trick, I'll make sure you regret it."

Seska's said nothing. She wasn't wearing the face she normally did when attempting to worm sympathy out of someone. It was her face of irritated defeat.

* * *

"It was your cooking class that made it possible," Icheb told Seven, under the hum of the crowded mess hall.

After Voyager's systems came back in full, and Seska's hologram was successfully sent to her cousin in the Alpha Quadrant, no one had argued with Neelix's insistence on throwing another one of his celebrations. The festivity was held off for about a week though, in order to allow the senior staff to recover from their ordeal, and the entire crew to mourn Crewman Angelo Tassoni. The senior staff seemed to relish being in their regular uniforms again, though several people argued that their hair or make up styles had looked better in the 1940s.

Seven listened to Icheb recount blowing up Kitty Indiana's café, with her usual hands-behind-the-back posture, in her solid-blue biosuit. She finally replied, with some forced humor, "I am relieved that our failed experiment with the Brunali stove resulted in a useful education."

They stood among a group of crewmembers in the sitting area next to Neelix's kitchen counter. Behind them, people came and went from the counter, while Neelix dished out refreshments.

"But you killed Captain Kirk!" exclaimed Tom, who drank a tall glass of water (the prescribed cure for his Galaxy Class hangover).

Harry added, "And Captain Picard, Sisko, and Commander Spock."

"No," Naomi looked slightly nauseated. "Spock was in the parking lot, kissing my mom."

"Don't remind me." Samantha Wildman said from the sofa.

"Naomi was rather malicious herself," Icheb complimented. "Did you tell them, how you poisoned Wi—" he stopped, remembering that the drug-addict had been based off Neelix's old friend Wix.

Naomi looked over at the counter. "I'm sorry Neelix."

"What's there to be sorry about," Neelix said, handing a cucumber sandwich to Crewman Celes. "That hologram wasn't my friend; he was a tool of Seska's. He was an insult to Wix, if anything."

"You didn't kill our friends," B'Elanna said, from where she sat on the couch next to Samantha. "You killed the shadows of our false lives."

Samantha looked at the half-Klingon. "What?"

A tiny smile touched the corner of B'Elanna's lips. "Never mind."

"But seriously," Crewman Kao Li Xiong said, serving herself some coffee, "That massacre was bad- _ass_."

Ayala and Jenkins, who sat together on a small sofa, offered there agreement.

"I saw the recording," Tom agreed. "It was straight out of 'The Godfather!' I ever show you that movie, B'Elanna?"

Seven noticed Naomi and Icheb kept glancing at her, and then glancing across the room at Commander Chakotay, who was socializing with some of his old Maquis soldiers. Seven's jaw clenched, and she looked away.

Tactlessly, Xiong commented, "You and Commander Chakotay made a cute couple, Seven."

Seven looked sharply at the young engineer, with an expression that her close friends would have recognized as murderous rage. But Xiong, not knowing Seven very well at all, didn't notice. The girl strode by the sitting area with her mug of coffee, and continued rambling.

"I mean I wouldn't really have guessed that, I always thought you might hook up with either the Doctor or Tuvok…"

"Commander Tuvok is married," Seven said.

"…but now I think I can see it. You're both, like, all professional and stiff on the outside, but emotional on the in—" Xiong stopped when she realized everyone was staring at her, silently telling her to shut the hell up. "S-sorry." She hurried away.

A ways away, Chakotay was nodding politely, pretending to listen while Ayala described the difficulties of operating a twentieth-century vehicle, while glancing over at the conversation by the sitting area. He'd been aware of his own attraction to Seven of Nine for several months now, but even so, it was a surreal realization, that the woman in the holodeck who'd been so wildly attractive in every possible way—intelligence, wit, compassion, courage, and superficial beauty—was the former drone he'd been so distrustful of for the last four years.

"Commander," Captain Janeway said softly from behind. "If I might have a word. Just a quick one."

He glanced over his shoulder at his old friend.

"It seems," Janeway said, "that when you're no longer the first officer of Voyager, and Seven's no longer a Borg drone, you two are quite drawn to each other."

Chakotay wasn't certain how to respond. His tight friendship with Kathryn put her in full right to make such observations to him off-duty, and she was correct. He offered a short nod and said simply, "Noted."

Janeway smiled, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and moved on to talk to some other crew members.

Chakotay continued to glance back at Seven until she left the sitting area, to take a seat at a table in the corner of the mess hall. She was pretending to read something on her PADD, but was forgetting to move her eyes. Chakotay excused himself from his current conversation, and approached Seven's table.

"Seven? You have a moment?"

Seven hesitantly lowered her PADD and looked up at him. "Commander."

"At ease Seven." He took a seat across from her. "How've you been?"

He found himself feeling giddy at the sight of her raised eyebrow. "Functional."

"That's good to hear." He let the awkward silence sit, before diving right in. "Our characters got along pretty well in that program."

"Indeed." Seven said, almost icily.

"Seven," Chakotay sighed, "We didn't have our real memories or our real names, but it was definitely us. I didn't realize before, how much more to you there is, than—" he caught himself before saying something tasteless. "Than what I'd been seeing."

"There is much about me you do not 'realize.'"

"Like?"

Her eyes stayed on her PADD, though he could see nothing was on the screen. "I cannot partake in an intimate relationship. My physiology is not compatible."

His eyes wandered her body. If he understood her right, that was a bit more information than he'd been asking for. She seemed to realize she'd mis-worded her last statement, and corrected herself.

"My brain contains…a device, designed to prevent me from experiencing the full range of emotions. If I cross the threshold, I will die."

This was news to Chakotay. "Guess it's a lucky thing our characters never had a chance to…"

"I believe it is best for us to return to our relationship to its previous parameters," she said quickly. "This crew requires its first officer and Astrometrics specialist functioning objectively. The personal conflicts of two senior officers do not amount to a gigaquad of Neelix's Marsupial Surprise aboard this ship. Our storyline as Annie Hanson and Charles Liberty was enjoyable, but there is no need to continue it. We'll always have that week in Mr. Paris's program—"

"Seven, there must be something the Doctor can do. Look at what he's been able to do for you already." He hoped this would encourage Seven, but then remembered that he probably didn't know the entire situation. Probably just the tip of the iceberg. "Even if he can't, I'm not asking you to marry me. Just a date. We don't even have to kiss."

Seven's eyes crept up. "A date to where?"

"Not the holodeck," Chakotay said quickly. "I don't know when our next shore leave will be. How about my quarters, tomorrow night? I'll make us dinner. Have you ever had an Indian taco?"

It took several moments for Seven to give in. "Your culinary skills are…questionable. But it is a risk I will take." Then, that rare smile he'd come to love.

"So there's this," Tom Paris's voice echoed loudly from the other side of the room, "the Captain Proton incident, Insurrection Alpha, that World War II program, the Beowulf program, Fair Haven….how many times has the holodeck almost gotten us killed?"

"Well most of those were _your_ programs," B'Elanna pointed out with playful accusation. "So it's really a matter of how many times you've gotten us killed."

"Wha—? Almost none of those were mine! That World War II program came with the ship, and Tuvok— "

Tuvok eyed Tom. "I attempted to delete 'Insurrection Alpha.' It was Lt. Torres who insisted on recovering it, and you on continuing to write it."

"You are _not_ pinning this on me!" Tom argued.

Janeway put an end to the debate. "What Mr. Paris lacks in luck on the holodeck, he more than makes up for at the conn. The benefits of having Tom Paris aboard outweigh the drawbacks."

"What was that line from 'Casablanca,'" B'Elanna asked her husband. "'As long as we have Paris?'"

"Believe it or not, I still haven't seen that movie."

B'Elanna leaned over the couch to kiss her husband on the cheek.

* * *

 **A/N: Some final musings/ramblings:**

 **Holy Spock's Beard, writing fanfiction has given me so much sympathy for the "Star Trek" writers, having to balance a cast of nine regulars plus recurring characters. I now understand why some characters ended up "neglected" by the writers.**

 **Chakotay and Harry Kim didn't end up doing much in this story, just like on the real show. The problem with Chakotay is that he starts off the story as a badass, and the only way to see a badass change is usually to see him get beaten down. That combined with Chaktoay dating a more central character is probably what caused him to end up as Seven's dude-in-distress (which, frankly, is a nice reversal from how most of these old noir stoires would play out). As for the Dweeb, I love Harry, but god almighty is he ever bland. The "Voyager" writers created him as a symbol of Earth the utopia, and that makes for a lovable but not very interesting character. At least not among a cast that consists of criminals and former drones and mentally unstable Vulcans.**

 **Speaking of which, Tuvok was _fun_ to write for this story. He's not one of my favorites, and I don't give the Vulcan much thought most of the time. But by the climax of this story, I was having so much fun writing his logical insanity.**

 **All in all, a pretty pointless story. But it was fun to write. And hopefully some people had fun reading it.**


End file.
